


The Path of Least Resistance

by chermit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Monster Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Mystery, Time Travel, all of the character deaths are in the first chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24362875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chermit/pseuds/chermit
Summary: Sasha fixed Tim and Martin with a glare that was deathly serious. “But why should that stop us? It is— or was, I suppose, given... everything— our literal job to investigate supernatural events. If the police won’t figure out what happened to the Institute, we’ll do it. Doesn’t everyone deserve that? Doesn’t Jon deserve that?”In the face of an unyielding apocalypse, the being that was once Jonathan Sims has one final, desperate idea. The archival assistants pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 361
Kudos: 795





	1. Collateral

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to MAG 167 and this idea grabbed me and would not let me go. Between that and the tags, you can probably get a vague sense of what's up. Please enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something has happened at the Magnus Institute.

Martin was halfway into his flat when it happened. 

It had been a long day at the Institute, but not a particularly notable one. He’d done some digging into the Lensik statement— housing and death records weren’t the most interesting things in the world, but in the context of a spooky haunted house they took on a captivating quality— listened to Tim and Sasha banter, and endured a total of three cold glares from Jon, which was fewer than he received usually. He’d accepted the victory, as small as it was, and it had made his day a little bit better. It had buoyed his spirits so much that he’d been confident enough to recommend Jon go home at the end of the day instead of staying at the Institute to record statements, which had garnered him his third and final cold glare.

Instead of going straight home, Martin had decided to stop by the supermarket to pick up a few things he was running low on— cereal, eggs, tea, canned peaches, nothing too out of the ordinary. He’d spent what was probably too much time deciding between different types of yogurt, but he wasn’t exactly in a rush. Between shopping, public transport, and staying at the institute a bit late to pester Jon, he got back to his flat at about eight in the evening. And as he was opening the door, Martin felt something _lift_. 

It was an odd feeling, as if a weight he had never noticed had suddenly disappeared off his shoulders, or like someone had been watching him for eons and had finally decided to look away. He considered it as he took off his jacket, pondering what could have possibly caused the sensation to strike him at that moment, but there wasn’t anything that stuck out to him. His day had been remarkably ordinary. Jon’s obvious distaste for him had even been more subdued than usual! There was certainly nothing that warranted such a strange feeling of… relief. Nothing at all. 

After mulling it over, Martin shrugged and launched into his evening routine. The strange feeling was forgotten as he put away his groceries, cooked dinner, and watched bad reality TV. If he felt a little freer to sing in the shower than usual, that was nobody’s business but his own. 

The next morning, Martin woke up early to prepare for work. He took special care to savor his tea, enjoying his last few moments of solitude before he began a hectic day researching monsters and hunting down records. He left his flat at eight o’clock, so that he’d get to the Institute ten minutes early, before everyone else. The tube was uncomfortably crowded, as usual, forcing Martin to spend his commute sandwiched between two middle aged businessmen. Once he’d escaped onto the city streets and began to approach the Magnus Institute, the cold November air nipped at his skin, and he had to stuff his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. But as he turned the final corner of his commute, he was struck by the sight of half a dozen emergency vehicles parked around the Institute and cops buzzing around the entrance, all marked off by police tape. 

The gears in Martin’s brain ground to a halt. That many police simply _didn’t come to the Institute_ . Gertrude Robinson’s disappearance had only drawn in two or three officers, and that was the last time any law enforcement had visited the Institute as far as Martin was aware. For there to be this many police at the Institute, something bad must have happened. Something very bad. And Martin had no clue what that could possibly be. 

After he’d spent a few moments staring at the scene before him, a dark pit of dread forming in his stomach, Martin gathered up the strength to confront it. He crossed the street and approached the first police officer he laid his eyes on, a serious-looking woman in a hijab. “Excuse me?” he said, pulling her attention away from a conversation with another officer. “Uh, I work here. Did something happen?”

The two officers looked at each other, before looking back at Martin. “You work at the Magnus Institute?” the one in the hijab asked, though it wasn’t phrased as a question. Martin nodded. 

“So we’ve finally got a live one, huh?” said the second officer, a woman with red hair cut close to her head. 

As Martin opened his mouth to ask what she was talking about, the hijabi officer cut in. “We’re going to need to ask you some questions, Mr…”

“Blackwood. Martin Blackwood.”

“Mr. Blackwood. If you would just come with me—”

“Tell me what’s going on here,” Martin said. “Please.”

The officers looked at each other again, and Martin could tell they disagreed about something. “I’ll tell Carver an employee showed up,” said the redhead, before walking off in the direction of a few other officers. The hijabi officer turned back to Martin with a sigh. There was something like pity in her face that made the pit of dread in his stomach grow deeper. “I’m sorry,” she said, and the tone of her voice told Martin that whatever she was about to say would shatter him. 

The officer— Constable Hussain, she said her name was— tried to explain it to him gently, but there wasn’t anything gentle about what had happened. Yesterday evening, she said, the London Fire Brigade had been called to a fire in the Archives of the Magnus Institute. By the time they arrived on site, the fire had been put out by the Institute’s sprinkler system, and the building sustained minimal damage. But by the time the firefighters had found the fire's source, it was the least of their concerns. No— what concerned the firefighters was not any fire, but the bodies. 

They had been found scattered throughout the Institute. At their desks, in the hallways, halfway through doors. They were completely pristine, with no signs of violence or struggle or even smoke inhalation. It was as if everyone in the building had dropped dead at once— and indeed, as far as the police could discern, they had. 

The police hadn't been sure what to suspect, their theories ranging from carbon monoxide poisoning to mass suicide. Regardless, there hadn't been much for them to do other than tape off the crime scene and investigate it. And that had been that, until later that evening, when Sonja Harland was reported dead. She had died of sudden cardiac arrest while with her boyfriend. Martin could remember Sonja talking about him, the few times he’d visited Artefact Storage. And then Thomas Bishop had been reported dead, also of cardiac arrest, and Martin could still picture in his mind the garish green sweatshirt Tom had chosen to wear to work last Thursday. 

“After that, we got our hands on a list of Institute employees, and a few officers started going down it, checking in on people. So far…” Constable Hussain trailed off, and the look of pity that had been painted on her face only intensified. _Oh._

“They’re all dead.” Martin had said, voice dull with shock.

“I’m sorry.” 

Martin didn't want to believe Constable Hussain. How could everyone just suddenly be _gone?_ He’d last seen them mere hours ago, and everything had been fine. There had been nothing to make him suspect that the next morning they’d be dead. What could have changed in that short time? It seemed impossible. _It should have been impossible_. And yet—and _yet_ — here he was, surrounded by police officers and crime scene tape, and a constable was gently explaining the situation to him in the same tone of voice you use to regretfully inform them their loved one has died. He could believe that Constable Hussain was lying or somehow wrong all he wanted, but that wouldn't change the fact that he knew, deep down, that she was telling the truth. 

Martin was overcome with the urge to throw up. The pit of dread in his stomach had become a giant, gaping maw that seemed to have completely consumed him. 

If everyone except him was dead, that meant Sasha— Tim— _Jon_ —

Jon, who liked to stay at the Archives one, two, three hours after his assistants had departed for the day. Jon, who had stayed late at the Archives _yesterday_. 

“Did— did you find Jon?” Martin asked quietly, trying not to let the fruitless, irrational hope that Jon had gone home and somehow _lived_ show in his voice. From the look on Constable Hussain’s face, he had failed. 

“Who?”

“Jonathan Sims. He’s the Head Archivist of the Institute. He uh, he’s short, and has dark graying hair, and brown skin, and glasses?”

Constable Hussain looked very sad when she said, softly, “Yes.” 

After that, things became hazy. Constable Hussain guided him to sit on the steps in front of the Institute as he tried to keep his knees from giving out on him and process… everything. The cold marble bit into him, but he didn’t particularly notice, too lost in his own despair. Time passed in a blur; for all he knew he could have been sat there for seconds or years. At some point Constable Hussain left, and police officers and paramedics swirled around him like ocean currents around an island. Perhaps more than he ever had been, he was alone. 

What was he supposed to do now? How did a person go on from this? In an instant, he’d lost a job he liked, financial security, _all his friends_ . It was as if he’d been living a wonderful dream and had suddenly been pulled back into cold reality. What was he going to do without Sasha’s warm smiles, or Tim’s dumb jokes, or _Jon_ , God, Jon, he’d never even gotten the man to like him, and now he was _dead_ . All of them were. _Of course they are ,_ a part of him said. It was only right, only fair that everyone at the Magnus Institute was dead except for him. Why would Martin Blackwood get good things? It would have been kinder for him to be dead along with them— 

“...Martin!”

A voice shouting his name cut through the fog of grief and loneliness that had settled around him. Martin looked up, and saw _Sasha_ , weaving her way past the police and looking decidedly alive. Martin stood up and stared at her in disbelief, tears welling in his eyes. 

“Sasha?”

Sasha rushed over to Martin, face twisted in unnerved concern. Martin took in all her features: the deep brown color of her eyes, the purple scrunchie she had used to tie back her dark curls, the light dusting of freckles across her nose. All the little details he had always taken for granted he now made special care to fix in his mind. This was Sasha, real and standing in front of him, and she was not dead. How was she not dead?

For that matter: how was _Martin_ not dead? 

“Martin! Are you alright? What is _happening_ here? I tried to ask but nobody would tell—”

Martin crushed Sasha into a tight hug. All the grief he had been holding in crashed over him at once, and he began to sob into her shoulder, face pressed into the warm brown wool of her coat. Sasha only hesitated a moment before hugging him back. For what felt like a long time they were like that, Martin letting himself finally collapse into the embrace of someone he’d thought dead moments ago. Eventually, the tears thinned out to shaky gasps, and Martin let go of Sasha to face her. 

“Jon’s dead,” he choked out. “Everyone’s dead.” 

Sasha stared at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

Martin gripped her shoulders. “ _Everyone_ is _dead_.”

“You— I don’t—” Sasha searched his face. “What are you talking about?”

“Everyone who works for The Magnus Institute. Everyone except— except us.”

“But— that doesn’t make _sense_."

"The police— they said—"

Sasha stepped back from Martin, expression of skepticism rapidly turning to one of fear. "Are they sure?"

"Yes, they're sure, I—"

"When? How?”

“I don’t know,” Martin said, a sob in his throat. “It was sometime last evening— everyone just _dropped dead_ and they don’t know why, or— or how—” 

“What— last night?” Sasha's eyebrows furrowed. “But I was talking to Tim just this morning and— _Tim_.”

Sasha immediately dug into her coat pocket and withdrew her phone. She frantically tapped at the screen before putting it to her ear, and Martin could make out a dial tone on the other end. For a few moments, there was an awful anticipation between the two of them, both of them holding their breath. But after what felt like an eternity, the ringing stopped, and a tinny voice at the other end said “Hi Sasha, Yes I know I’m late, I’m getting coffee and you can tell Jon to shove it up his—”

“Tim!” Sasha said as she let out a teary laugh, relief written all across her face. Martin released his breath and brought his hand to his mouth as Sasha spoke. “Oh my god, Tim, you’re okay!”

“Uh, yeah, I’m okay.” Tim’s sardonic tone turned serious. “Did… what’s going on? Did something happen?”

“Yeah,” Sasha said. “Yeah, something happened.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible, we can talk then—”

“Wait,” Sasha said, cutting him off and looking at Martin. “Can you… please don’t hang up.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment, before Tim's voice said, “Uh, yeah, I can do that. I’m here. Do you want me to talk about something in particular?”

Sasha wiped at her eyes. “Anything.”

“Okay, well, I think I mentioned this to you already, but last weekend I went kayaking, and…”

Sasha sat down— well, it was more like her legs gave out from under her, but the effect was the same— and gestured for Martin to sit next to her. He did so gladly, and she put her phone on speaker before leaning against him. Together, they listened to Tim go on about his kayaking trip, tears rolling down their faces, the world falling apart around them. 

—

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of crying and police questioning. Tim showed up after about ten minutes, and it didn’t take long to update him on the situation. The terrible, terrible situation. He settled into a state of numb disbelief rather quickly, and only made one awkward joke about not having to go to work anymore before Sasha’s hurt glare shut him up. 

Eventually, Constable Hussain reappeared to have Martin answer some questions, and was surprised to be told that two of his coworkers had turned up alive and well. All three of them were shuffled into a police car and taken to the nearest station, where they each spent a few hours answering questions about their jobs, personal lives, their feelings about the Institute, opinions of their coworkers and bosses (and hadn’t that question been especially fun for Martin), even how their health had been recently. The person questioning Martin, a severe man named Constable Carver, had been polite, but not particularly sympathetic towards Martin’s plight. The two or three times Martin had broken down into tears, the Sergeant had silently watched until he composed himself. 

By the time Martin was done being questioned, it was official: out of every single person officially employed at The Magnus Institute, him, Tim, and Sasha were the only ones who hadn’t dropped dead last evening. Martin was standing in a small lounge area that smelled like coffee and cigarettes, waiting for them to finish with Sasha and quietly talking to Tim when an officer— Detective Tonner, the redhead he’d seen speaking with Constable Hussain at the scene— gave him the news, and he had to sit down on the ratty couch in the room to compose himself. Tim sat next to him and put his arm around Martin's shoulders, although Martin could tell he was equally distressed.

“You’re sure?” Martin rasped, looking up at Detective Tonner. 

“The officers we had check were about as thorough as you can get,” she replied, looking down on Martin impassively. “You archival assistants are pretty lucky.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, voice dull. “I guess we are.”

“So what happens next?” Tim asked.

“Well,” Detective Tonner said as she crossed her arms, “considering that this is a Section 31 case with no suspects or leads… not much.” 

Martin and Tim stared at her for a moment. “What,” Tim said. 

“What, exactly, are we supposed to investigate here? Eighty-five people go into cardiac arrest at once— what type of evidence does that leave behind? How the hell can we do anything about that, especially when it would just be me and Basira? No, hate to break it to you, but we’re pretty much done here once you lot leave.” 

“Are you kidding me? You just count some bodies and go ‘wow, that sucks, lets just forget about that?’” Tim fixed Detective Tonner with a _murderous_ glare. “All of my coworkers _drop dead_ and you _don’t care_?”

“Yep. sorry.” Detective Tonner did not look particularly sorry. She met Tim’s glare head on, returning her own icy gaze. 

Tim stood up from the ratty couch, looking about ready to punch Detective Tonner in the face. “That’s funny, because I thought it was the police’s _job_ to investigate—”

“Hey, Tim!” Martin said as he quickly stood up. “Why don’t we go get some fresh air! Outside. Not here.” He gave Detective Tonner an apologetic look. “Sorry about that.”

Tim looked between Martin and Detective Tonner, before he sighed and said “Fine. let’s do that.” He turned to Detective Tonner. “Once Sasha’s out of questioning, tell her we’re outside, _Detective ._ ”

“Will do,” she said. “Have a nice day.”

The two of them made it out onto the street, and Tim immediately shouted, “You heard her back there, right?” The cold air did nothing to cool his temper. 

“Yes, I did hear her,” Martin said.

“Nearly a hundred people die at once and they don’t even care. What the fuck? That lady didn’t even _pretend_ to feel bad!”

“It is pretty messed up,” Martin admitted.

“I just want to punch her in her smug face. That stone cold—” 

“Look, Tim, I get it,” Martin said. “I’m upset too. But… being angry about it won’t solve anything. It won’t make the police care, and it won’t bring anyone back.”

The fight melted out of Tim, and he slumped against the facade of the police station. “You’re right. It’s just— it sucks.”

“I know.”

Both of them stood there in silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of the city, before Sasha emerged from the police station.

“Wow,” she said, false cheer in her voice, “they really are thorough about their questions, huh?”

“They’re not thorough about anything else,” Tim replied. 

Sasha sighed. “Constable Hussain told me about that on the way out. Because this is weird supernatural stuff, they don’t have the resources to follow up. She seemed apologetic, at least?”

“Yeah.” Tim was not enthused. None of them were; Martin felt like the day’s events had hollowed him out, scooping up any joy he’d once had and leaving behind only an empty sadness. None of them were quite sure what to say, so none of them said anything, and they all let the city move around them as they shivered against the cold. 

After a few minutes, Tim stood up straight and said, “Let’s go to the pub. I don’t know about you two, but there’s nothing that sounds more appealing right now than drinking my sorrows away.”

“Tim, it’s like two thirty,” Sasha protested.

“Do you really care?”

“... No.”

Martin, who didn't drink much under normal circumstances, found himself agreeing with Tim’s assessment of the situation. “I’m in,” he said.

“See! Even Martin wants to get so drunk he doesn’t know who he is,” Tim said, a small smile making its way to his face for the first time all day. “Let’s get going.” 

So that was how Martin found himself in a shitty pub with his only remaining (former?) coworkers at three in the afternoon. The place was a hole in the wall, and at that time of day it was all but dead. They found a booth in a dark corner, Sasha and Tim cramming in next to each other and Martin ordering the first round of drinks from the bored looking bartender. 

At first they largely drank in silence, slumped over in their seats and wrung out by the day’s events. At some point, a basket of chips appeared on the table, but none of them touched it. Martin sank into the decaying leather seat of the booth and became one with his surroundings, absorbing into his skin the faint smell of spilled beers and the football game playing on a TV somewhere in the background.

Three drinks in, Tim broke the quiet by saying, “I wonder what Jon would have thought of all of this.”

Martin looked up from the table. He saw Sasha, who had been leaned forward over her drink, lazily turn her head to face Tim. “What?” Martin croaked. 

“Oh come on. If he found a statement that said ‘everyone at my work simultaneously died for spooky reasons’ you _know_ he would have dismissed it out of hand. He would have taken one look at it and gone ‘considering that the statement giver ends sentences in prepositions and once smoked weed, I sincerely doubt that this ever happened.’”

Sasha huffed in a facsimile of a laugh. “You’re not wrong. This would have broken his tiny skeptic mind. It’s too bad he… ”

The table lapsed into silence again.

“It’s weird,” Martin started, “Because he wasn’t really that nice to us. To any of us— especially me. But I feel like… I feel like we could have been good friends. I mean, for all his grouchiness, there was definitely something… something there, right?” Martin sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe,” Tim said. “He was always a prickly bastard, but he did put up with us whenever we invited him to, like, your birthday party for example. He certainly didn’t go to any birthday parties back in research.”

“I just— none of us ever really got to know him. We can only hope that _maybe_ he harbored feelings other than resentment for us. I like to think he did, but I can’t really be sure, can I? We’ll never know, and I hate that, because I feel like there was real potential for something great there.”

Tim sighed. “Yeah.” 

“Asshole or not, he was one of us,” Sasha said. “I think we were growing on him. And, to be honest, he was kind of growing on me. I was almost beginning to understand your crush on him, Martin.”

Martin felt his cheeks grow hot and looked at his drink again. “Was I really that obvious?”

“Yeah, a little,” Tim said. “You were very doting.” 

“I dote on everyone.”

“But you doted on him the most.”

“Yeah, well, that was never going to go anywhere anyways. And it’s especially not going anywhere now that he’s… he’s dead. So. Yeah.”

There was an awkward silence, before Sasha said, “I’m sorry Martin, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s okay.” Martin shakily exhaled. “It doesn’t matter now, I suppose.”

“No, I suppose not.” Sasha sipped her drink. “But I think you’re right that he didn’t hate us. It was almost endearing how hard he tried to play up that whole ‘grumpy old man’ persona of his. You know, I broke into his computer a few weeks ago— his password was his birthday, and he was a decade younger than he claimed to be.”

Tim choked on his drink. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“You mean he was _twenty-seven_ _?_ With that much grey hair?”

“Yup.”

Tim leaned back in his seat. “Wow, that’s— that’s really sad, actually,” he said, before his shoulders slumped. “He was only twenty-seven.” 

The three of them sat there, processing that, as the sound of the football game floated over them. Martin didn't think he had any tears left in him after the day's events, but if he did, that revelation very well may have set him off. Fuck, _Martin_ was twenty-seven, and he certainly didn't feel ready for death at his age. It wasn't fair. None of it was, obviously, but what had Jon done to earn death while Martin and Tim and Sasha escaped? For that matter, what had the entire Institute done to earn death that the three of them hadn't?

“Why us?” Martin asked.

“I— I don’t know.” Tim said. “Maybe the murder ghost just liked us.”

“But seriously, why us? Why were three _archival assistants_ spared from… whatever killed everyone else?”

“I mean, if something decides I don’t have to drop dead on a random Tuesday night, I’ll take it.”

“It is strange though,” Sasha piped up. “All of this is. Obviously, whatever massacred the Magnus Institute was supernatural.” Martin and Tim nodded. That was something of a given. “But what would have done that? And why?”

“It could have been something from Artefact storage?" Martin suggested without much conviction. "The staff there poked something nasty too many times, and it decided to exact revenge on the Institute?”

“Maybe… but that still leaves your question: _why us_ _?_ If an Artefact wants to slaughter the Magnus Institute, why would it stop short of the Archives?”

“I’ll take that one step further,” Tim said. “If us three didn’t have to die, why did _Jon_ _?”_

Martin and Sasha looked at him.

“Seriously. You said it yourself Sasha: _‘_ _Asshole or not, he was one of us_ _.’_ We were all in the Archives, so if our spooky murderer decides it wants to kill everyone _except_ the Archival staff, what makes him so special?”

“I mean, he was _Head_ Archivist…” Martin said as he slumped into his seat. Tim was completely right, of course. Martin had thought the exact same thing; Tim had simply said it aloud. There wasn't anything that differentiated Jon from the three of them, except that he was one rung above them on the ladder. That may have mattered to their jobs, but it shouldn't have been enough to kill him. 

“I guess he was too important to be left alive,” Tim said. “I guess we’re not important enough to die.”

“Guess so,” Sasha said. “But if we’re going based on importance, I feel like we’d be higher on the list than, say, Sebastian.”

“The janitor?” Martin asked as he did his best to become part of the shitty leather booth. 

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know,” Tim said. “His job was pretty important. Without him, I’m sure the Institute would have been consumed by some sort of garbage monster eons ago.”

“Point taken,” Sasha admitted, “But you see what the issue, right? The only thing that sets us apart from everyone else is the our job titles. There's nothing that makes us special except for the fact that we're _'archival assistants.'_ And I just have no idea what it could mean. _”_

 _"_ Maybe I'm right about the Murder Ghost liking us," Tim suggested, only half joking. "Maybe it's a fan of librarians, but only the subordinate ones."

"Tim! First of all, we're not calling it the Murder Ghost." Sasha seemed legitimately upset at the concept of calling whatever had killed all of their coworkers and upended their lives something as pathetic as the Murder Ghost, and Martin couldn't blame her. "Second of all— well, I suppose that's possible..."

"Or maybe we won it over with our winning personalities? Or it took pity on us—" 

“You know,” Martin said as he suddenly sat up in his seat, a thought occurring to him, “Yesterday, as I was getting home, I… I _felt_ something. It was like— like when there’s some sort of white noise in the background? And you don’t notice it’s there until it goes away. It felt freeing, I think. I wonder… I wonder if that was… when it happened.”

“Shit,” Tim said. “You too?”

 _“What?_ _”_ Martin asked. 

“I was eating an entire sleeve of Oreos last night, and when I got to the end of it something just— disappeared. I wasn’t sure what the deal was, just figured it was the last of my self control slipping away. I didn’t connect it to the Institute at the time, but if you felt it too…”

Tim and Martin looked at Sasha.

“I was reading a book,” she said. “It must have been eight, maybe?” 

“That’s around when I got home last night,” Martin said.

“Shit,” Tim reiterated.

“Well, what the fuck!” Sasha exclaimed suddenly, slamming her drink on the table and causing it to slosh everywhere. Tim and Martin jumped at her sudden outburst. “Something _terrible_ just happened to us and all our coworkers are dead, and for some reason we were all spared and we don’t know why!

“And we’ll never know,” said Tim, “because the cops don’t give a fuck.”

“No, they don’t.” Sasha fixed Tim and Martin with a glare that was deathly serious. “But why should that stop _us_? It is— or was, I suppose, given... everything— our literal job to investigate supernatural events. If the police won’t figure out what happened to the Institute, we’ll do it. Doesn’t everyone deserve that? Doesn’t _Jon_ deserve that?”

“Sasha,” Martin said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but what’s the point? Whatever it is— it _won_. It did what it wanted to do, and we’re just what’s left over. The best we can do is move on, and try not to think about it too much, I guess.”

Tim shook his head. “I think Sasha has a point. I, for one, would _love_ to fuck up some monsters on behalf of our dead coworkers.” 

“Well— yeah, but…” Martin trailed off. They were both right. He knew they were right. And he wanted to do something about what had happened, same as them. But at the same time— they were all dead. Every single one of them. Sonja, Tom, Sebastian, Rosie, Elias, Jon— _Jon_ — all of them were dead. And dead they would stay. And revenge wouldn’t change that. Anger wouldn’t change that.

More than anything, Martin just wanted to stop. He didn’t want to think about what had happened, didn’t want to talk about it, just wanted to try and move on with his life. Forget that the Magnus Institute had ever existed, that Jon had ever existed. But that wasn’t possible, was it? For all he just wanted to— to stop feeling terrible about it, he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to move past this. No; unless he wanted to die, he would have to cope with the fact that his entire life had been ripped away from him in one fell swoop, leaving him to deal with the wreckage. Well, him, and Tim, and Sasha. And if he had to cope, he might as well cope productively. Revenge would probably be a better catharsis than death.

Martin sighed. “You’re right. Let’s avenge Jon.”


	2. Empty Holes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The archival assistants make some interesting discoveries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for all the kind comments on the first chapter! There were so many I wasn't sure where to begin responding, but I promise that I read and treasured all of them. I'm really glad that people like this are excited to see where this goes! Don't worry, I have a plan, and I think you'll all like what I have in store. Anyways, please enjoy this chapter!
> 
> cw: graphic descriptions of gore/dead bodies. I didn't tag it because it's like one paragraph so its not hard to skip, but be warned regardless.

Sasha woke up the next morning in yesterday’s clothes with a splitting headache, a crick in her neck, and hideous back pain. She also had her face pressed into someone’s chest. 

She blinked a few times as she processed her situation. Blurred memories of the previous day’s events passed through her throbbing head. Finding the Institute swarming with police. Hours being questioned. Everyone… all of her coworkers being dead. Swearing to figure out why.

Drinking. 

They had spent the rest of the evening getting absolutely plastered. What else were they supposed to do? It wasn’t as if they had work the next day, and Sasha hadn’t wanted to think too critically about that fact last night. She hadn’t want to think too critically about the strange, sudden shift to her fundamental reality which had raised such wonderful questions as “What the hell?” and “How are you going to pay rent?” and “How does it feel like to know that most of the people you’ve spent the past few years of your life working with are dead?”

All things considered, Sasha had held it together quite well. She hadn’t panicked too much when she’d found Martin sitting under the shadow of the Magnus Institute, surrounded by police lights. She had _wanted_ to panic. She’d wanted to deny what Martin was telling her, even though she knew he had no reason to lie, knew that there had to be so many police for _something_ _._ She’d stopped herself from falling to pieces as she frantically dialed Tim, and from breaking down when he answered. She’d kept her cool through police questioning and police apathy. And now that she was awake— kind of— she would continue to keep it together. _Someone_ needed to, and it might as well be her.

But last night had been for falling apart. She’d cried into at least one of her beers, letting out all of her strange, pent up grief in a storm of tears. She wasn’t sure what aspect of it all she had been crying about, what, or who, she was grieving. All of her emotions had melted together, and she couldn’t tell apart their different flavors. Tim had hugged her as she wept, and Martin had held one of her hands. As much as it had hurt, it had also been cathartic. She’d needed it.

Sasha had lost track of things around their seventh… eighth drinks? At that point, everything became a blur of people and glasses clinking together and sadness. And then, presumably, they had decided to go to Sasha’s place to sleep off their night, and then… 

Well, considering the cold wood against her side, she was probably on the floor. And unless Martin had suddenly grown a few inches, lost some weight, and started wearing cologne, she had decided to fall asleep with Tim. 

Carefully, so as not to rouse him, she lifted up her head and examined her surroundings, wincing as that caused the pain behind her eyes to spike. She was indeed in her flat, specifically on her living room floor. Blue morning light shone through the windows, just barely illuminating everything in soft greys. On her couch, Martin was curled up in a bundle of blankets Sasha knew were supposed to be on her bed, with his face pressed into a throw pillow. And next to her— yep, that was Tim alright. He had sprawled himself out and kicked their blanket half off like the big idiot he was. His mouth was hanging slightly open, and he snored gently. It was kind of cute.

She felt like she should be uncomfortable with the fact that she’d apparently fallen asleep on top of Tim. Considering that they were both wearing the clothes they’d gone to sleep in, she was reasonably sure nothing had happened between them, but they’d definitely spent the entire night cuddling. The two of them hadn’t been anywhere near an item for a while, and surely this crossed some sort of boundary they should have had? And yet… it had been nice to wake up in someone’s arms. It had been warm and cozy, something to hold on as she grimaced against the nasty hangover currently assaulting her, or the grief brewing in her chest. 

Sasha laid back down, once again using Tim’s chest as a pillow. She didn’t really think she wanted to be alone right now. 

And she had to imagine Tim didn’t either. It wasn’t as if Sasha was the only person having a breakdown, after all. Throughout all of yesterday, Martin had been shrouded in a silent sort of sadness, while Tim had been _angry_ _,_ a simmering fire that only raged more powerfully as the night went on. Sasha could remember how he’d started shouting about the unfairness of it all, the sheer awfulness of their situation, eyes shining and cheeks flushed, not caring about the way he drew the gazes of other patrons. He’d shouted about Danny. 

For all that Sasha was… upset, by what had happened, she had to admit that Tim and Martin both had more tying them to the Institute than her. Martin had his lack of work qualifications, and Tim had Danny. She’d already been looking for other jobs anyways, but where would Martin be able to? Where would Tim want to work? She was worried about the both of them. And she wasn’t sure if she trusted their abilities to keep it together. Which was why _she_ was the collected one. 

Sasha sighed and closed her eyes, appreciating the slow rise and fall of Tim’s chest. She’d face the day and all the messy emotions that were bound to come with it later, when the sun had actually risen and the others were awake. For now, she’d do her best to get a little more sleep, and appreciate how cozy Tim was.

—

By the time the three of them managed to drag themselves out of bed for real, it was past ten in the morning. Sasha’s hangover was just as brutal as it had been when she’d first woken up _,_ leaving her head feeling like it was splitting open and her stomach churning, and she was sure the others weren’t faring much better. Tim had been just as surprised to wake up next to her as she had been to wake up next to him, and although she’d had to endure him exaggeratedly waggling his eyebrows at her throughout the morning, he’d been more subdued about the whole thing than she would have expected from him under normal circumstances. But then again, these weren’t exactly normal circumstances.

They converged on her kitchen. In hindsight, none of them had eaten much more than chips yesterday, and they were all starving. Sasha was working on preparing some semblance of breakfast, her desire for food overriding her hangover. She’d retrieved a carton of eggs from her fridge and fired up one of her burners. Tim was attempting to help by manning the toaster, and Martin was brewing tea, gingerly puttering around the kitchen with a blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.

None of them had brought up the Institute. Sasha was sure none of them wanted to. She certainly didn’t. But its shadow hung over them, darkening the mood of what should have been a fine, albeit physically painful, morning. As Sasha’s groggy, hungover brain tried its best to ignore the elephant in the room, it found itself unable to simultaneously handle the herculean task of making eggs. She squinted at her frying pan, holding an egg in her hand, as she tried to wrap her head around breakfast.

“How do you all prefer your eggs, again?” She eventually asked. 

“I’m not too picky,” said Tim as he buttered a piece of toast.

“Scrambled would probably be the easiest,” said Martin.

“I’ve always liked my eggs over easy, since you’re so kind as to ask,” said the sailor that was sitting on Sasha’s couch. 

Martin jumped. Sasha yelled and accidentally crushed the egg she was holding in her fist. Tim shouted “JESUS FUCK.” The clatter made Sasha’s headache spike, and she winced. At the very least, she was more awake than she had been two seconds ago. 

“Hello,” the sailor said, as if he hadn’t just manifested in Sasha’s flat. 

Tim pointed his butter knife at the sailor, doing his best to look threatening. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

“Yeah, uh, what the fuck?” Sasha said as she wiped egg off of her hand and onto her trousers.

“Are you here to kill us?” Martin asked. 

“Here to finish the job, huh?” Tim said. “Because if you are, we’re not going down without a fight—”

“What? No! Well, I _might_ vanish you if you annoy me, but that’s not why I’m here.” He sighed. “Let’s try again. Hello. I’m Peter Lukas, the new head of the Magnus Institute.”

The three of them stared blankly at the sailor— or, Peter Lukas, as his name apparently was. Tim did not lower his knife. None of what he had said was particularly reassuring. 

“Elias appointed me as his successor in case anything happened to him,” Lukas added unhelpfully.

Sasha’s brain cells suddenly turned on and began firing, and she said “Wait— you’re Peter _Lukas?_ As in the Lukas Family?”

“What excellent deduction skills you have!” Lukas said. 

“Right. How you get into my flat, again?” Sasha asked at the same moment that Tim demanded, “Did you murder everyone at the Institute?” and Martin asked “Do you want some tea?”

“To answer your questions: I walked, no, and no. I’m not planning on staying too long,” Lukas said as he stretched out on the couch. Now that Sasha was really looking at him, it was rather impressive how much he looked like a sailor. It was almost cartoonish. He had the turtleneck, the coat, even the beard. Sasha wasn’t sure if Elias, rest his soul, had the best choice in successors. 

Slowly, Tim lowered his butter knife. “Okay,” he said. “Uh huh. Cool. Do you know what _did_ kill everyone?”

“Unfortunately, _I’m_ not omniscient, so no. Imagine my shock when I pop in to visit Elias and stumble upon a crime scene.” He shook his head. “It caught me completely off guard. Although it makes my life easier, I think I’ll miss the man. Always thought he’d go out with more of a bang, though, with more Regency theatrics. Honestly, I’d like to know what happened to him as much as the rest of you. Because I’m certain he didn’t see this coming, and that is— or, well, _was_ _—_ rather out of character for him.”

Sasha shot Tim a Look. He silently mouthed “What the fuck.” 

“That’s part of why I’m here, actually,” Lukas continued. “Whatever killed Elias— by all rights it should have killed you all, too. You’re something of an oddity. It’s remarkable how completely severed you all are from the Beholding. If Elias hadn’t liked filing paperwork, I wouldn’t have even known you existed. So I figured it would only be polite to check in and ask how you all aren’t dead.”

Sasha interjected. “Wait, you just said you didn’t know what—”

“I don’t. But I _do_ know how he operated his Institute. So: how did you cut yourselves off?” 

Lukas looked at them expectantly, as if they had an answer for him. As if any of them knew what he was talking about. As if they had even so much as processed his monologue yet. Sasha glanced at the others; Tim was squinting at Lukas in confusion, and Martin was very pointedly fiddling with his blanket. 

Eventually, Martin built up the courage to answer. “Uh, I’m sorry? But we, uh. We have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“... What?”

“Yeah, uh, we’re not sure what you mean when you say we ‘cut ourselves off.’”

“And as much as we’d _also_ like to know why we’re not dead, we don't,” Tim said. 

Lukas’ eyes flashed in disappointment. “I see,” he said, before standing up and brushing himself off. “In that case, I’d like to be going—”

“Wait!” Sasha said, and Lukas paused. “What’s going to— do we still have jobs?” 

“So many questions. I really fail to understand how you aren’t part of the Beholding,” he said while shaking his head, an edge of annoyance in his voice. “The Magnus Institute’s time is over. It was always J— well, it was never really my _thing_ _,_ so to speak, so there’s not really any point in me keeping it running. I guess you’ll all need to find work elsewhere.” 

Sasha wasn’t surprised by the answer. She’d expected as much; how was a organization supposed to stay in business after losing all of its employees in one fell swoop? But that didn’t make it any less pleasant to have it confirmed. She was just glad she’d already been searching for a job.

“Now then, is there anything _else_ you’d like to pester me about?”

Martin said, “Uh, are you sure about that tea?”

Lukas shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, and the temperature in Sasha’s flat _dropped_ _._ “Alright. You know what? I’m sure _Elias_ would have wanted me to _‘take care of you,’_ but I’m not Elias, and I don’t actually care about you or your problems.”

Wisps of fog condensed around their feet and began to climb up Sasha’s legs, engulfing her in uneasy inches. She forced back a shiver as the world around her became distant and blurry, the sounds and colors muted, and the scent of wet earth met her nose. It became hard to think over the chill that had settled in her bones, the silence in her ears, the strange and sudden sense of _solitude_ that overcame her. 

“All of you will be wonderful additions to the Lonely.” Sasha heard Lukas say distantly, although she didn’t quite register the words, so lost in her own head. His pale blue eyes scanned over her, before passing over Tim, who stood up to his waist in a cloud of mist that hadn’t been there last time she’d seen him. He seemed so far away. Everything seemed so far away. Finally, Lukas’ eyes settled on Martin, who had drawn his blanket around his shoulders in a feeble attempt to stay warm. “Especially—” 

Suddenly, Sasha was slapped in the face with a palpable, almost physical sensation that _something was watching her._ It hit her with the force of a truck, dragging her back to awareness and cutting through the fog that had shrouded her body and clouded her mind. She was not alone— because there had to be someone behind the eyes that pressed down on her. Whatever it was, it stared with the intensity and focus of a laser, and Sasha knew that she was _Seen._

Her first impulse was to hide, but she knew in her bones that trying to escape it’s all-seeing gaze would be fruitless. It would still be able to see her no matter where she was, no matter what she did. It would watch her. The only thing she could do was stand there, paralyzed in fear and confusion and, she had to admit to herself, just a little bit of curiosity. 

And Lukas— Lukas, who had just moments ago had barged into Sasha’s flat like he owned the place, who had just moments ago brought her to her knees with fog and references to things she didn’t understand— he had visibly paled, which was impressive considering his already pasty complexion. His frame was hunched in on itself, and his muscles shook as if straining against something, struggling to remain standing, like the weight of the gaze was crushing him into the ground. He groaned with the very effort of resisting. He looked so much smaller than he had mere moments ago, so much less powerful.

He looked _afraid._

Sasha gazed at the strange tableau of a Sailor struggling against an invisible force in the middle of her living room. The battle went on for what could have been an eternity, but eventually something shifted, and Lukas shouted “Fine! I get it!”

And then the feeling was gone, like it had never been there. 

Sasha sucked in a deep breath. It felt like she hadn’t been able to before, when the weight of the gaze had pressed down on her. Tim and Martin sputtered next to her, coughing and swearing under their breath. Lukas was fully doubled over now, sucking in great gulps of air as if he’d just run a marathon. 

“I guess the Beholding does still have its eye on you,” he gasped out, and before Sasha could ask what that meant— what any of this meant— he had disappeared, leaving nothing but wisps of mist and confusion in his wake. 

—

The first order of business: getting down everything they knew. 

While Tim and Martin curled up on the couch with mugs of tea, Sasha dug through her closet, procuring a whiteboard, some dry erase markers, and an old easel she’d stolen from her roommate in uni. As she set up the whiteboard in her living room, Tim and Martin discussed what, exactly, the fuck had just happened. 

“I mean, he did say that he didn’t—”

“And we’re going to trust the word of an evil magic sailor? You saw how he just appeared and disappeared at whim, how he— how he—”

“Yeah.” Martin said as he let out a sigh. “Yeah, You’re right.”

“Okay,” Sasha said, turning around from the easel to face the two of them. They stopped talking and looked at her, Martin taking a sip of his tea. “What do we know so far?”

“Well,” Tim said, “I guess we’ve got the obvious: all our coworkers are dead.”

Although the discussion they were about to have would require such bluntness, Sasha still barely stopped herself from flinching. Martin was less successful. 

“That, uh, that would be the most logical starting point,” Sasha said, before writing _‘Magnus Institute Dead’_ at the top of the board. It was… unnervingly mundane. Something that disturbing shouldn’t just have been written at the top of a white board like some sort of corporate agenda item— but here Sasha was, doing it anyways. This was her life now, and they had to start their investigation somehow. 

They spent the next hour writing down everything they knew about what had happened to the Magnus Institute and anything they thought might be connected: the report of a fire; the sudden deaths of every Institute employee except them; the strange feeling of relief they’d all experienced around that time; Peter Lukas. 

“And let’s not forget about whatever it was that… saved us?” Sasha said. “From uh… whatever Lukas tried to do.”

“You know, I think I actually _would_ rather forget that.” Tim said. 

“As much as that all was unpleasant and confusing and deeply, _deeply_ weird, we do still need to talk about it.” Martin said. 

“Yeah,” Tim said. “But that doesn’t make me want to contemplate how that fucking sailor just thrashed us with fog and _spooky shit_ and we couldn’t do _anything_ except sit there and take it until we’re rescued by some sort of— I don’t even know, but whatever it was I don’t like it.”

“Me neither,” said Sasha, “But it’s probably important. At the very least, we can reasonably guess that whatever saved us has powers based on watching people. I mean— you were there. You felt that.” 

“You can say that again,” Tim said. “It was like I’d just done something monumentally stupid on live TV. It made me feel... seen. Very creepy. If it hadn’t pulled me out of Lukas’ fog, I probably would have hated it more.”

Sasha wrote _‘Rescued by Watching Thing: What? Why?’_ on the board, underneath _‘Peter Lukas: Sailor, Institute Funder, Evil Fog Powers, Suspect?’_

“Peter mentioned some sort of _‘_ _Beholding’_ a few times, didn’t he? As he was leaving he said something dramatic like, ‘Beholding has its eyes on all of you,’” Martin said, doing a bad impression of Lukas. “That seems like the type of name a watching monster would have.”

“Yeah, you’re right, he did mention that.” Sasha said. “That was weird. And he asked us how we’d, what, cut ourselves off from it, I think? Not totally sure what he was going for, but I think it was something like that. Do you think that whatever rescued us from Lukas was ‘Beholding?’”

“It’s possible,” Tim said. “Lukas also could have been talking out of his ass.”

“True… I’ll add it as a possibility. Whether or not this thing is Beholding, we need to look into it.” Sasha wrote _‘Beholding?’_ next to where she’d written _‘Rescued by Watching Thing: What? Why?’_

“I think it makes sense, but it does raise the question: if this thing is Beholding, and Peter said that we’re not connected to it anymore… why did it rescue us?” Martin asked. 

“Other than him having no clue what he’s talking about? I couldn’t tell you,” Tim said. 

“Is it sentient?” Martin asked. “Does it have feelings? Does it like us?”

“All very good questions,” Sasha said. “But we don’t have enough information to answer any of them. I mean, we don’t even know what Beholding _is,_ or if it’s what saved us from Lukas, or if we can even take Lukas at his word. Continuing this discussion just isn’t productive.”

Tim and Martin nodded.

“Right then,” Sasha said. “I think we should jump back to talking about…” 

They continued talking for another hour, expanding the whiteboard— as uncomfortably normal as it was, it really did help organize their information— but they didn’t make much headway in their investigation. What they had was a starting point, and while it was very useful to have everything they knew so far laid out in front of them to look at, it didn’t help them solve anything. It was, after all, just a starting point. If they wanted to get anywhere, they needed more information— information such as police records. 

After a short lunch break, during which the three of them had a half-cocked, start-stop conversation about the merits of _Broadchurch_ _,_ they sat down on her couch to hack into the London Police Network. Well, it wasn’t really _hacking,_ per se— Sasha already had a backdoor into their systems, so it wasn’t as if she was starting from square one to get in. But that was besides the point. The only thing that mattered was that within a few minutes of sitting down, sandwiched between Tim and Martin, Sasha had located the files for the Institute case, and her mouse had hovered over them for only a few short moments of hesitation before she’d opened them. 

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to see. Sasha wasn’t sure what she’d expected, considering how fresh everything was; there was what looked to be a preliminary police report, recent CCTV footage of the Institute’s entrances, videos of all three of their interviews, and… crime scene photos. 

“What do we want to look at first?” Sasha asked.

“Not the crime scene photos,” Martin said. 

“Let’s just start with the police report,” Tim said.

Sasha agreed. Crime scene photos meant photos of her dead coworkers, and Sasha didn’t want to start off with looking at that. She opened the police report, and began to read.

_“Police Report Number 101415, Filed on 11/11/2015 by Constable Basira Hussain. Report: At approximately 8:15 on 10/11/2015, Officers Hussain and Tonner were dispatched to The Magnus Institute following a call for Section 31 police backup by the London Fire Brigade. The officers met with Assistant Commissioner Tulley outside the Institute, and asked him to explain what occurred prior to their arrival. He advised the officers that his unit had been dispatched to extinguish a fire in the Institute's Archives—”_

“Wait, holy shit, how did we not notice that before,” Tim said suddenly as he put his head in his palms.

“Uh, what?” Sasha asked, confused.

“The fire started in the Archives. _The Archives_ _._ There isn’t anything down there that could so much as give off a spark, and Jon _never_ would have let any sources of ignition anywhere near the place. The only way a fire possibly could have started there is intentionally.”

“Oh Jesus,” said Martin.

“You’re right,” said Sasha. “That’s so obvious. How did we not notice that?”

“But who would want to burn down the Archives?” Martin asked. 

“Probably the same thing that murdered everyone who worked for the Institute?” Tim said as he stood up from the couch. He walked over the whiteboard and added a bullet point which said _‘ARSON’_ in red letters.

“Well if the killer tried to burn down the Archives, I doubt our culprit is Peter Lukas,” Sasha said. “Fire didn’t seem quite his style.”

“True…” Martin said. 

“Maybe he has smoke powers too?” Tim said as he sat back down on the couch. “How funny would it be if his thing was mastery of air particles. I’d become a bitter old man too if I was granted superpowers and they turned out to be _cloud manipulation.”_

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Somehow, I doubt that Peter Lukas has ‘air particle powers.’"

“I’m with Sasha,” Martin said. “Peter was much too cold to deal in fire.”

“Yeah. Well, I suppose that’s another mystery to add to the pile,” Sasha said with a sigh. “Let’s see if the police have any more for us.” She cleared her throat and continued where she left off.

_“Upon arrival to the scene, his unit observed no evidence of fire from the outside, and entered the building. Inside the building, his unit found bodies of what they assumed to be Institute employees, and after examining the building for evidence of fire, found fire sprinklers running in the Institute’s Archives. Assistant Commissioner Tulley advised the officers to accompany him through the building and examine the bodies of the deceased._

_“The officers entered the building with Assistant Commissioner Tulley. Immediately, they found the body of a woman in her mid-30s identified as Rosie O’Hanegan—”_ Sasha stumbled, caught off guard— _“behind,_ uh, _a reception desk in the Institute’s lobby. O’Hanegan laid collapsed on her side, and the Officers observed no signs of any— any struggle in the surrounding area or wounds on her body.”_

Next to Sasha, Martin was looking into his mug of tea, face schooled in an expression of pinched distress, and Tim was clenching his fists so tightly on his own mug that the knuckles were white. Although Sasha was still composed, she understood their reactions. This was… less than pleasant to read about. Rosie had been a staple in Sasha’s life ever since she’d started working at the Institute, someone she’d seen and greeted nearly every day for the past few years of her life. To read such a callous description of her death… it made something dark and choking well up in Sasha, and she didn’t like it. But she could handle this. This was important. She was doing this _for_ Rosie, and for everyone else who had died. 

_“After— after observing the body, the officers continued into the Institute, going down a flight of stairs into the Institute's Archives at the request of Assistant Commissioner Tulley. In the Archives, Assistant Commissioner Tulley led the officers to a place where the shelves of papers had been burned, with scorch marks and soot clearly visible. The burned patch was approximately twenty feet in length, and there was water on the ground as well as soaking the contents of adjacent shelves._

_“Assistant Commissioner Tulley then led the Officers to the second— the second body, which was found amongst the Archives’ shelves, a man in his mid-late 40s, later identified as Elias— Elias Bouchard. Once again, there was no sign of a struggle, and no obvious injury on the body, although it was curled in the fetal position as if— as if in pain._

_“While Assistant Commissioner Tulley and Officer Tonner examined the body of— of Elias Bouchard, Officer Hussain searched the Archives for evidence or other victims. Upon entering an office adjacent to the Archives, Officer Hussain discovered the body of a man in his early 30s, later identified as Jonathan Sims, sitting in an office chair with three gunshot wounds to his chest—”_

Martin dropped his mug of tea, and Sasha heard it shatter against her floor. The spilled tea seeped into her sock as she stared in disbelief at the page before her. That— the police had said that the causes of death had been cardiac arrest for _everyone_ _._ What she had just read didn’t make sense. The very concept shattered every silent assumption she’d made about what had happened to the Institute. Why would _Jon_ have been _shot?_

“Wh— what? What the hell?” She heard Tim say.

A feverish need to _know_ took Sasha in its grasp. If this was true— if Jon had been— if he had been _shot_ _—_ she needed to see it for herself. She closed the police report and opened the file of crime scene photos, and immediately began searching for any of Jon. As she scrolled, intermingled with photos of cubicles and tapes and scorch marks were the cold grey faces of people she’d known for years, people she’d worked with, laughed with, eaten lunch with, taken for granted. There were her coworkers in Artefact Storage, her coworkers in Research, people she’d never spoken to and people she’d gone out for drinks with, lying sprawled on carpets or in repose on metal tables. There was Sonja, once warm skin now colorless. There was Hannah, once lustrous hair now limp. There was Rosie, her cheek pressed into the carpet of her little receptionist’s room, appearing for all the world as if she’d simply fallen asleep. There was Elias, curled in on himself, his dead hands clutching at his chest, his dull eyes opened wide in fear. She scrolled further into the folder, swallowing down the dark fear in her throat and ignoring the ghosts staring out at her.

And there was Jon. 

And suddenly, Sasha longed for the clinical distance of the police report. It was so much easier to read ‘Jon was shot in the chest’ than it was to see the reality of it laid out before her. 

On her laptop screen was a picture of Jon. He was slumped back in his office chair, the worn out one he said he’d found on a curbside, arms hanging limp towards the ground and head lolled to the side. Blood oozed from three dark gaping gunshot wounds which her arranged in a jagged cluster over the center of his chest, staining his green sweater vest black. The wounds seemed to Sasha like great open pits, endless and empty, and she almost swore that she could see the gleaming black innards at their bottoms. But even they did not compare to his face. In the dead center of Jon’s forehead, perfectly framed by his still neat hair, was a deep, crimson bullet hole. Rivulets of blood flowed from the wound, washing over his features and drenching them in red. That bloodstained face was frozen in a tableau of fear, his unseeing brown eyes widened and his mouth twisted open in one final expression of shock, one final moment of terror before the end. Fuck, _he looked so scared._

Tim looked away and sucked in a sharp breath, and said “Oh God,” his voice shaking. Martin very quickly stood up, face pale, and practically ran out of the room, and it was only moments before Sasha heard him throwing up in her bathroom. But Sasha— Sasha just stared. She took in every shade of color, every drop of blood, every inch of raw terror in Jon’s eyes. She was sure that a pale facsimile of that terror was reflected in her own eyes— and yet she did not look away. She couldn’t. Because this was Jon. This was the fate of someone she’d known for years, someone she'd almost been friends with, someone who had mattered to her. It was right in front of her, and as terrible as it was she couldn’t just ignore it, even as her eyes grew hot with tears and she choked on her own grief. 

After what could have been an eternity of staring into Jon’s lifeless face, warped waves of horror and anger and fear and guilt and utter loss washing over her, Sasha at last shut her eyes and closed her laptop. 

— 

They stopped there for the day. It hadn’t felt right to continue working on their investigation after… that. 

Sasha couldn’t sleep that night. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw Jon, the image of his corpse burned into the backs of her eyelids. After an hour of staring at her shadowed ceiling she gave up, and decided to read through the rest of the police report. And when she found herself on its final page without also finding herself closer to sleep, she scanned through the CCTV footage. Neither pursuit was worth her time, not really. There was nothing in any of it that explained how Jon had been murdered, or how any of it had happened at all. The CCTV footage didn’t show anyone suspicious enter or exit the building with any sort of visible weaponry within five days of the murder, and according to the police report no firearms were found on the scene— so how did someone shoot her boss? No, the files were only useful to distract her from her own insomnia.

Well, there was one thing. The police had found a tape on Jon’s desk, still inserted in its tape recorder. The police report didn’t say anything about it’s contents, but it _did_ say that they hadn’t been able to digitize it— and although no one in the Archives had ever said it out loud, Sasha knew exactly what that meant. There was something supernatural on that tape. But knowing that the tape existed didn’t help; even if Sasha could access it— which she couldn’t, because it _wouldn’t fucking digitize_ _—_ there was a good 60-70% chance that it was just a paranormal statement. For insomniac Sasha in the middle of the night, sitting on her bed trying not to think too much about what her boss’ corpse looked like, it was as good as a dead end. 

At five fifteen in the morning, Sasha at last ran out of files to examine and footage to scan. Instead of resorting to Netflix, she made the responsible decision of attempting to sleep. Her efforts were less than successful. As she turned in her bed, quietly wishing she had Tim to keep her company as Jon’s face floated behind her eyes, the question of _how_ ate at her. How had someone shot Jon? Why had someone shot Jon? Why had someone shot Jon and then lit the Archives on fire? Why had someone shot Jon and then murdered the rest of the employees of the Magnus Institute with previously unused supernatural powers? Her brain spun as she failed come up with any satisfactory answers.

As utterly unbelievable as all of her coworkers dropping dead in an instant was, it didn't break Sasha's worldview. The Magnus Institute had been created to investigate the supernatural, so of _course_ the supernatural destroyed it. And even if the killer defied understanding, it was at least consistent in its execution. But this… it just didn’t make sense. Plain and simple. Internal logic had been thrown out the window. Phantasmal forces of death didn’t _shoot people with guns._ So what made Jon special? Why was he shot, while everyone else got to have a heart attack?

It was likely, Sasha considered as she turned over for what had to be the tenth time, that it had something to do with what made the Archival Assistants special. If there was one thing that seemed obvious about this terrible mess, it was that the Archives were at its very core. She simply needed to uncover how and why. As every loose thread and unanswered question revealed the shape of this mystery, Sasha gained a creeping sense that there was a giant, unknowable hole at the center of everything. And if that hunch was right, then there was one grain of knowledge, one essential puzzle piece that would make it all fit and give answers to each lingering question. She had no clue what could possibly fill this hole, but there was a good chance that whatever it was, it was shaped like the Magnus Archives. 

She and Tim and Martin needed to begin to truly investigate this. Their questions were being answered with more questions, so it was time to stop questioning and start _searching_ _._ They would not fill the hole in the case checking police reports and discussing their theories. They needed to dig for their answer, hunt for clues, break into buildings, interrogate sources. They needed to look at their whiteboard, pick a lead, and follow it. And really, they needed to pay a visit to what seemed to be the flux point of everything.

They needed to go to the Archives.


	3. Beneath the Surface

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important matters are taken care of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I really can't thank everyone who kudosed and commented enough!!! I especially love reading what you guys think of the fic! Seriously, all of you are awesome. Seeing people enjoy this makes my day.
> 
> Real quick I have two things to say:  
> 1\. You may have noticed that I added a chapter count to this fic. That's an approximation-- I'm not 100% sure how many chapters this is going to end up being, but it's in the ballpark of thirteen.  
> 2\. In general, I'm trying to get these out about once every two weeks. That said, society no longer exists and time isn't real, so don't necessarily expect updates on the dot. 
> 
> Please enjoy, and tell me what you think! Get out those red string boards if that's your thing!

As much as Tim would have liked to devote every hour of every day to figuring out what dickhead ghost decided to murder most of his acquaintances and destroy his life, he had bills to pay. Consequently, there were a few weeks following the Institute’s implosion where, much to Tim’s disappointment, nothing productive happened in their investigation as the three former archival assistants attempted to put together the pieces of their lives. 

It wasn’t as hard as Tim would have imagined to get a job. He spent the long night after they went through the police files vibrating in his bed instead of sleeping, and the next morning he send his old supervisor at HarperCollins an email that basically said “Hey, my place of work experienced a mass death and now I’m unemployed, can I have my old job back?” He was only half expecting a response; he’d been reasonably well liked at the publishing house, but he’d quit rather suddenly after Danny, and wasn’t sure they’d be keen to have him back. But when he received a reply that asked him to prove he wasn’t lying instead of telling him to fuck off, he considered it a rousing success. Two weeks and one awkward phone call to Officer Hussain later, and he was once again an employee of HarperCollins Publishers LLC. His salary was lower than it had been before, but this was clearly a pity hire and he’d take what he could get. 

Compared to Sasha and Martin, he had it easy; Martin lacked qualifications, and Sasha was dead set on academia, so their options were limited and neither of them had clear fallbacks. So he offered to vouch for either of them if they wanted to apply at HarperCollins. Sasha wasn’t interested— apparently she’d landed a job as a barista somewhere while she searched for something more substantive— but Martin took him up on the offer, and suddenly he worked two floors above Tim as a copy editor. 

Being back at his old job was _weird._ The past three years had changed Tim irrevocably, but HarperCollins had stayed the same. From the faded green carpets to the flyers on the bulletin board to the gossip around the water cooler, everything was exactly as he remembered it. It was like opening a time capsule, stepping into a long lost life where death and failure didn’t cast their shadows over him. He received a warm enough welcome from his coworkers, a container of store bought cupcakes and a nice card, but he nonetheless felt distinctly out of place as he tried to smile at people he barely remembered the names of. As much as he tried to fit in, all he could think as he stared at an inbox filled with emails about normal books was _God, what am I doing here?_

Sure, it was a relief to be employed, but what had even been the point of his time at the Institute if he was just going to end up right where he’d left off with nothing but trauma to show for it? He’d had _three years_ to hunt down the Circus, an entire paranormal research organization at his fingertips, and he’d done _nothing._ He’d decided that he would put avenging Danny off until later, but now later had come and gone and he had jack shit to show for it. He’d failed Danny and, on top of that, now he had an entirely _new_ revenge quest— and that was just fucking perfect, wasn’t it? His little brother pushed even more to the wayside so he could go on a wild goose chase hunting for the shitty magic serial killer and/or crazed gunman that killed his asshole boss. 

…That wasn’t fair. Jon wasn’t really that bad, and he hadn’t deserved what happened to him. None of them had. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t _want_ to avenge any of them; fuck, he was burning up inside with it, antsy with waiting _,_ jittering in his uncomfortable office chair and desperate for the day where he could do something worthwhile with his time instead of reading emails about _normal books._ But why couldn’t he have been that impatient for Danny? Why couldn’t he have done something while he’d had the chance? It wasn’t fair, that this tragedy should overshadow Danny. But this was Tim’s life, because of course Tim Stoker didn’t get good things. Tim would throw himself into obliterating the Murder Ghost, but every moment he would hate himself for prioritizing it above Danny. 

The only good things Tim Stoker had were Sasha and Martin. If they hadn’t made it out of the Institute, he wasn’t sure where he’d be. Probably self destructing. He may not have had a job he liked, or a little brother, or answers for any of the tragedies that defined his life— but at least he wasn’t alone. 

They spent time together when they could. Tim and Martin often ate lunch together at HarperCollins, both eager to escape an oppressively mundane work environment. Outside of work they’d meet up to watch TV, complain about their new jobs, sometimes just sit in silence. When they had the stomach for it, they’d talk about the Institute— once, they spent an entire evening discussing over drinks whether the thing that killed Jon and the thing that killed everyone else were the same entity or two different ones, unable to come to a consensus. They bounced between each others’ places, and Tim got used to crashing on Sasha or Martin’s couches, or either of them crashing on his. It was nice, to be woken up on a Saturday morning to the sounds of Martin making tea, or of Sasha’s sparkling laugh. Tim could get used to it. 

The time together wasn’t necessarily productive— although their discussions were helpful, they still didn’t have any new information to work with— but it didn’t need to be. Sasha was convinced that they needed to go to the Archives, and Tim didn’t disagree, so they were waiting for the right day to do so, when all their schedules aligned. But it was difficult to find time, between their jobs and the funerals. 

Oh yes, the funerals. Eighty-five funerals for eighty-five Institute employees. Most were scheduled to take place over the course of late November and early December, all sorts of different ceremonies in all sorts of different locations. It was impossible to attend all of them; if you split them evenly between Sasha, Tim, and Martin, each of them had about twenty-eight funerals to go to, and none of them had that many sick days so soon after getting their jobs. But they tried their best to attend as many as possible. It seemed important to pay their respects to those who had died, each and every one of them. 

It was difficult figuring out where and when they all were taking place. But as luck would have it— although Tim speculated that it had less to do with “luck” and more to do with “sailors”— many appeared to be arranged by the same person, taking place in the same overgrown cemetery outside of London, resided over by the same tottering priest. 

Most were silent, empty affairs. Apparently, the average Institute employee hadn’t had many friends or family. More often than not, fewer than ten people showed up to any given funeral, and Tim was the sole person who witnessed the vast majority of the ones in the overgrown cemetery. It pissed him off that these people had been murdered, and there was no one in the world who cared. He’d understood in a sort of abstract way that most of his coworkers had been kind of lonely, but to see it laid bare in such a final way… how close had _Tim_ been to having an empty funeral? The only living people he had meaningful relationship with were Martin and Sasha. The only thing that stood between him and a forgotten grave was chance. 

So that was how Tim spent a decent portion of his free time for a while. Attending funerals. At a certain point it got… boring. Watching a box be lowered into the ground as rites were said and tears were shed was somber and all, but after so many times he couldn’t quite bring himself to find it moving. Tim stopped being sad about the funerals, and then he was angry at himself for no longer being sad. He was supposed to be grieving for these people— in some cases he was the _only person_ there to grieve for them— and he couldn’t even manage that? How much of a failure did you have to be to not pass a bar that low? God, he really was the worst at doing well by the dead. First Danny, and now the entire fucking Institute— 

Anyways. 

Elias’ funeral, which all three of them attended, was uniquely uncomfortable. It took place at an ancient, musty mansion in Kent that was straight out of a horror movie. The other attendees were as unfamiliar as they were eclectic. None of them seemed willing to approach the archival assistants, instead regarding them from a distance with expressions of confusion, and fear, and… hunger. Like the three of them were curiosities in a freak show, or forbidden cows being sized up for the slaughter. The air was tense with restraint. The only exception was a fashionable black man in a dark trench coat, who gave the three of them comforting back pats before saying “Sorry about all this,” and wandering off. 

The whole affair set Tim’s lizard brain on edge. Plus, that bitch Peter Lukas was there, and when Tim tried to confront him and ask him what his problem was, he disappeared into thin air.

But even more than all of that, even more than the haunted mansion or the strange guests or Peter Lukas: the most unsettling thing about the funeral was that it was open casket, and for some reason no one had bothered to close Elias’ eyes. 

On the other hand, the funeral of Jonathan Sims was completely unremarkable. The weather was classically English: cold, wet, and overcast. The late November air left frost on the ground, and nipped at Tim’s face as he stood in the cemetery, listening to an old man say rites that he imagined Jon wouldn’t have particularly cared for. He pictured Jon, eternal skeptic that he was, rising from his grave like a vampire to explain to the priest that there was no empirical evidence of a loving god, and that everything we loved would eventually be destroyed by climate change and the heat death of the universe. The thought made Tim internally chuckle, just a little. 

The funeral was one of the empty ones. Aside from the three archival assistants, there was only one other attendee. That familiar outrage which had burned out after so many funerals flare up once more. Tim’s heart broke in to jagged pieces with the knowledge that there was no one to mourn Jon. Only four people in the world cared that he was dead. _Four._ How cruel was that? How deeply cruel was the force behind whatever gun had shot Jon, to end someone’s story before anyone cared to notice?

Once the rites were complete, Jon was lowered into a grave in the middle of an unassuming plot of earth in the heart of that old neglected graveyard where much of the Institute now resided. His casket was already closed, a fact for which Tim was silently thankful. The last time he’d seen Jon, he’d been alive and whole, and Tim didn’t want that to change.

The four of them watched in silence. Tim was sure Martin was crying, and he suspected that Sasha and himself were as well. Then, for one split second, Tim was struck with the strange feeling that someone was watching him. He looked up from the grave suddenly, blinking tears from his eyes and scanning the graveyard. But no one was there, and as soon as the feeling had come, it disappeared.

After the funeral, the other woman who had attended approached them. “Did you know Jon well?” she asked them without much preamble.

“Uh, not really. I’m sorry.” Tim said. He felt a tinge of guilt at breaking any illusion this woman may have had that Jon died with loved ones.

“We were his coworkers,” Sasha said. 

“Right. That’s— I’d just hoped you were his friends. I’d hoped— I didn’t want him to be alone.” The woman was quiet for a moment. “I’m Georgie, by the way.”

“Uh, I’m Sasha. That’s Tim, and that’s Martin.” Tim nodded, and Martin gave a small wave. 

Georgie nodded. “Even if you were just his coworkers, I’m glad—” Georgie’s voice thickened. “I’m glad _someone_ cared. Even if— you weren’t friends. ...If you don’t mind me asking: what was he like? When you knew him.”

Sasha spoke up first. “Well, we worked at the Magnus Institute, and he was the Head Archivist there. He… didn’t quite know what he was doing? But he still cared a lot about his job.”

“He had a very, uh, thick exterior,” Tim said. “He put up a big show of finding us annoying, but I like to think he secretly appreciated my jokes.”

Georgie laughed wetly at that. “If that’s not Jon, I don’t know what is.”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “He was— he wasn’t the nicest person in the world, but he tried. And he shouldn’t be dead.”

The conversation lapsed into silence for a moment. 

“What was he to you?” Tim eventually asked.

“We dated in college,” Georgie said. “Honestly, we hadn’t spoken in… God, it must have been years.”

“Ah,” Martin said. “I’m— I’m sorry.”

“How did you find out…?” Sasha trailed off. 

Georgie shrugged sadly. “I… read obituaries sometimes. And I saw his, and it just… I didn’t expect it, I guess. I wasn’t even sure if it was right for me to come to the funeral, given how distant we were, but…” Georgie trailed off and gazed out at Jon’s grave. “I guess I was worried that if I didn’t say goodbye to him, no one would.” 

—

“Right,” said Officer Hussain as she peered at Tim with deep incredulity. “Can I help you with something?”

“I uh— I just wanted to stop by and thank you! In person. For giving HarperCollins a heads up about the Institute. Probably wouldn’t have a job right now if it weren’t for you.” Tim flashed his brightest smile.

They were in the police station where Tim had been questioned for a few useless hours, in that weird shitty break room where he’d almost gotten into a fistfight with Officer Tonner. Tim was standing in front of Officer Hussain, holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Okay… you’re welcome, I suppose. And what are those for, again…?” 

“Oh, these?” He shook the flowers a bit. “Uh— I wanted to give them to you as a, uh, a thank you gift.”

“A thank you gift.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Tim shoved the flowers in her general direction, and she took them reluctantly. “Figured you could spruce up your desk with them, or something. I don’t know what police officers do with flowers. For all I know you’ll just throw them in an evidence locker and forget about them, ha.”

Officer Hussain did not laugh at his joke.

Tim cleared his throat. “Uh— anyways. I did actually have something I wanted to ask you.”

“Really now.”

“Yeah.” Tim grinned and tried to put his hands into his pockets sexily. He really was pulling out all the stops. “I was wondering if you would be interested in getting dinner with me sometime.” 

If Officer Hussain had been incredulous before, she was now in outright disbelief. Tim did not drop his smile.

“Are you _actually_ asking me on a date?” She said as her eyebrows crawled up forehead.

“I suppose I am,” Tim said. This had better work.

“You’re serious.”

“As serious as it gets! What do you say? Care for a night with the most eligible bachelor this side of the Thames?”

“I— uh—” Officer Hussain looked at the flowers, and then over Tim’s shoulder at something that was apparently behind him as she struggled for words. She was going on a face _odyssey,_ and Tim could only hope that he was suave enough that the destination was in his favor. He was doubtful, though; it seemed that this was not a smitten kind of stuttering, but instead an _‘are you out of your goddamn mind’_ disbelief. Tim willfully ignored his brain and hoped that maybe she was just flustered. 

Officer Hussain’s eyes snapped back to him, having come to some sort of conclusion, and for a moment Tim was sure that it wasn’t going to work. He could no longer deny the next in his long line of failures. She had been too flummoxed, too confused, and now her expression was much too… calculating to be a yes. She’d weighed the pros and cons, and Tim had come out on the bottom. 

But then:

Officer Hussain took in a deep breath and said “Okay, sure. When are you available?”

Success! Tim internally fist pumped as they made their plans, and did a very subtle actual fist pump as Officer Hussain— well, Basira, he supposed it was fair to call her— put her number into his phone. He then turned around to leave, spirits lifted in victory, and almost ran face first into Officer Tonner, who was standing directly behind him and giving him the meanest stink eye he had ever seen in his life. He blanched, mood slightly dampened, nodding at her politely and leaving as quickly as possible, all while trying not to wonder how long she’d been there.

Outside the police station, he stepped into the front seat of his car, a beat up sedan that had seen better days. “Well?” Sasha asked, leaning between the front two seats. She and Martin, who was riding shotgun, looked at him in rapt attention.

“She agreed to a date, so not a _complete_ failure.”

Martin and Sasha broke into smiles at that. “I told you she wouldn’t be able to resist the Stoker Charm,” said Sasha as she gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, the light coming in through his rear window haloing her head.

“Uh, honestly, the Stoker Charm had a weak showing today.” Tim said as he rubbed his neck. “She was more hesitant than I would have hoped— but still interested, which is a start!”

Martin’s brows furrowed at that. “You’re sure you can get her to give you the tape, then? I mean, she seemed pretty by-the-book, and if she’s not interested in you…”

Tim shrugged. “Worth a shot, isn’t it? Sasha’s sure the tape is important.”

“It _could be_ important,” Sasha corrected. “I’m not _sure,_ but it’s a possibility we can’t overlook. Either way— I’d like to get my hands on it, and Tim is our best bet.” 

“Fair point,” said Martin.

“Besides,” added Tim, “I’ve seduced enough clerks in my day that I’m practically a seasoned expert. The flowers were just the warm up act. We’ll see if she’s still hesitant after what I have planned for our date.”

“You _are_ good at taking people on dates,” Sasha said, a brilliant smile on her face and a knowing glint in her eyes.

“Why thank you,” Tim replied, also grinning.

“Anyways,” Martin said, a bit red in the face, “As long as you don’t commit crimes in front of her it should be okay. And I, uh— _also_ have faith in your ability to woo people.”

“I’ve never felt more supported in my life,” Tim said as he keyed the ignition to the car. “But enough about my irresistible charms. We have an Archive to visit.”

—

The Institute was smaller than Tim remembered. It had always loomed large in his mind, the great white pillars seeming to stretch into the sky, towering over everything, but now it was just… a building. An average-sized, empty building. A pang of sadness struck Tim. Although it hadn’t been that long since the three of them had been there, it felt like a lifetime had passed. 

Sasha let them into the building with her key. All the lights were off, and a thin layer of dust had already found its way onto most surfaces. Every sound they made seemed to echo through the space. Somehow, the Institute was even more desolate than Tim had expected. Something had disappeared— something _other than_ dead employees. The air did not weigh on him as it once did, and Tim did not know why. But he _did_ know that the Institute was well and truly empty of life. 

There was a comfort to that. To knowing that there were no ghosts in these halls.

They passed Rosie’s desk in somber silence, went down a dark stairwell, and entered the Archives. Martin flicked the light switch and the incandescent lights slowly fizzled on. This place, too, had ever so slightly changed since Tim had last seen it. Dust wafted through the air, as did the acrid smell of burnt paper. The lights were paler, the files upon files which sat on the shelves were somehow more still, like the life had left them. The place felt dead.

There was a lot here they needed to search for. They’d sat down last night to draft a list which they felt covered all of their bases. The actual physical evidence side of things was vaguer, including odd symbols or scorch marks, foreign objects, blood, and anything else out of the ordinary. But they also wanted to keep an eye out for relevant statements, and that list was much more comprehensive: statements concerning mass death, spirits of destruction, fires, fog, sailing, feelings of being watched, and, quote, “spooky gun violence.” 

“Alright,” Sasha said once they’d entered. “how do we want to divvy up the Archives?”

“Uh, how about I cover the far side of the Archives, one of you covers the middle, and one of you covers the near side?” Tim said as his eyes reacquainted themselves with the cold shelves.

“Sounds good to me. I’ll cover the near side,” Sasha said.

Martin spoke up. “Um. Someone should also probably check out Jon’s… his office.”

All three of them were silent.

“I… I can do that, if no one else wants to,” Sasha said quietly. “Which I assume no one else does.”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “We’ll just split the Archives in half then. For investigation.”

“Alright,” said Tim, as he tried not to think too much about what Sasha might find in Jon’s office. About the blood and the deep wrongness. 

So they split up. Tim walked to the far end of the Archives, passing the assistants’ bullpen to gather some photos and a couple pens that he’d left behind, a palpable melancholy washing over him as he did so. Then, he began his meander through his designated territory. 

The far end of the Archives was an area they hadn’t gotten around to organizing yet, and he doubted that he’d find any relevant statements. Regardless, he tried to be thorough, scanning every aisle for evidence and occasionally pulling a statement from the shelves— although nine times out of ten it would say something like “Statement of Joe Spooky regarding The Ghost Who Said The Queen Is A Lizard Person,” and Tim would put it back with a sigh of annoyance.

It was slow going, squinting at every knot in the floorboards, groaning at every bullshit statement. Quietly, Tim wished he could skip to the punching part of revenge now. But this was important too, and by fucking God he was going to do it right.

One of the aisles in Tim’s domain was the one that had burned. The police report had understated how bad the damage was; the burn was a dark, ashen welt which had consumed an entire shelf of statements, and had even spread slightly beyond that. It was so large and so black it made him feel enveloped him in soot. It was not supposed to be there— yet there it was, a cancer that had destroyed what Tim once held so dear. Gazing at it set Tim’s heart alight like the paper of that very shelf. 

As Tim turned away from the burn to continue his trek through the Archives, mood darker than it had been before, his foot kicked something and he heard it skitter across the wooden floors. He looked down in surprise, before walking over to the object and squatting down next to it. He resisted the urge to pick it up, as Sasha had requested they not touch anything they find. It was a lighter, and a nice one at that, covered with a subtle golden spider-web pattern. He only wondered what a source of ignition was doing in the Archives for a split second before he remembered the _colossal scorch mark he’d literally just been staring at._

“Hmm,” Tim said. 

A part of him had still expected the fire to be some sort of Murder Ghost fuckery. But this lighter had clearly started the fire, just as a gun had clearly killed Jon. It only further reinforced that, as clearly supernatural as the massacre of the Institute was, there was something uncomfortably normal about it. Something uncomfortably familiar. Tim didn’t like it.

As he considered the lighter, his gaze absentmindedly wandered to, of all things, the floor around it. And now that he was looking, he noticed that there was something ever so slightly… off, about it. It wasn’t any one thing he could place— it was something about the color of the wood, or the age— but Tim regardless had a nagging sense in the back of his mind that this particular piece of floor was kind of weird. And he’d become familiar with nagging senses recently. 

His eyes caught on a thin crack in the floor running perpendicular to the planks, very subtle but darker than he would have expected. He followed it until it formed a corner with another groove, and another, and suddenly Tim realized that he’d found a whole piece of flooring that was separate from the rest.

That was… odd.

“Hmm,” Tim said again, before shouting “Hey Martin? Sasha? You might wanna come look at this.”

He tapped the lighter out of the way with one of the pens from his desk. There was something under the floor here. He had no clue what it was, but it might be important. But how could he open it? How easy would it be to get an ax in Central London? Or maybe a crowbar— wait! Tim spotted a strange divot in the wood, dark and curved, and almost instinctively, his fingers reached out and tried to pry it from the floor. After a few moments of scrabbling, he found leverage, and a piece of the floor hinged up and turn into a handle, which Tim the proceeded to pull on with his whole weight. 

What was apparently a _secret hatch in the middle of the Archives_ swung open with a loud creak. Tim peered down into the inky darkness that awaited him, where a set of sharp stone stairs descended into an unknowable black void. Idly, Tim wondered what kind of crack Jonah Magnus had preferred to smoke. 

Somewhere nearby, Martin said, “What did you—” 

Tim looked up. Martin was standing at the end of the aisle and holding a few folders in his hands, staring at him blankly.

Tim gestured helplessly to the trapdoor and said, “I think I found a secret basement.”

Martin continued to stare, a picture of bafflement. “I— a _secret basement?”_

“What’s this about secret basements?” Sasha said as she approached from among the shelves, her face pale and drawn. She first spotted the giant scorch mark, which only made her look more uncomfortable, but when she noticed the trapdoor she lit up in an impressed sort of confusion. “Oh shit. You weren’t joking.” 

“Are you _serious_ right now? That was just _there?_ The whole time?” Martin said.

“Yeah, I know right!” Tim said. “What the hell!”

“You work in a place for _months_ and you think you get to know it,” Sasha said as she shook her head. “What’s down there?”

“Uh, I’m not sure yet.” Tim suddenly remembered the other piece of relevant evidence he’d discovered. “Oh, I also found a lighter here,” he said, pointing at the lighter. “Almost forgot about it in all the secret door excitement.”

Sasha and Martin walked closer to examine the lighter.

“Damn,” Sasha said.

“Honestly, it’s not the type of lighter I’d imagine an arsonist carrying,” Martin said. 

Sasha nodded. “Or a ghost.” Then, she looked back up at Tim. “Did you touch it?”

“Nope,” Tim said.

“Excellent.” Sasha knelt next to the lighter and pulled from her backpack what appeared to be some sort of fingerprinting kit. Tim and Martin gawked in fascination as she _dusted for prints._

“You uh, do know how to use that, right?” Tim asked. He’d never actually seen someone dust for fingerprints.

“I mean, I read the manual. I’m not an expert at forensics or anything, but I figured we might as well pull out all the stops.”

“Where did you even _get_ it?” Martin asked.

“Amazon,” Sasha said, and then she continued fingerprinting. 

Eventually, somehow, to the amazement of all three of them, Sasha ended up with a piece of tape with semi-clear fingerprints on it. “I can’t believe that actually worked!” she said, her voice made musical with wonder.

“Nice!” Tim said, and he gave Sasha a crisp high five. “What do we do with them now?”

“I—” Sasha paused. “Well, I need to figure out how to hack the national fingerprint database. It might take me a while. I didn’t think we’d get anything this fast.”

“... This is great!” Martin said. “We found something! We have actual evidence! I— we’re doing a good job.” Martin paused. “If only Jon could see us now.”

“Yeah,” Sasha said. “If only.”

They sat with that though for a moment, before Tim stood up. “Anyways, do we want to deal with the secret trapdoor now? Because I’d love to deal with the secret trapdoor.”

“Absolutely,” Sasha said. “The rest of the Archives can wait. I _knew_ coming back here would be a good idea.”

With that, they put the lighter in a ziploc bag, gathered themselves up, and descended into the unknown. 

—

So apparently, there were tunnels underneath the Magnus Institute. Not just a few tunnels, either— An entire vast, intertwining network of them. When Tim had found that trapdoor, he’d expected like, a mildewy basement with incriminating evidence and maybe a skeleton. He certainly had not anticipated a tunnel system that would give the Paris catacombs a run for their money.

The tunnels were darker than they had any right to be. Tim, Martin, and Sasha all had their phone torches on, and those barely pierced the darkness, only slightly illuminating the rough stone walls and the path ahead. And on top of that, they twisted and turned in unpredictable, obtuse patterns, a strange kaleidoscope to which none of them could see the end. It felt like they were going nowhere, even though they’d been walking for some time. They’d even made an effort to avoid going down the occasional staircase they came across, and still Tim had no idea where he was. The sensation was deeply unnerving. 

In Tim’s expert opinion, the whole place was _very_ Smirke. In fact, Tim had spent the past few minutes of their Tunnel Exploration wondering what Smirke this actually was. Based on their location, it was probably Millbank Prison? But he didn’t recall Millbank Prison having an extensive network of underground tunnels. Then again, he wouldn’t put it past Smirke to build this shit in secret.

If his now encyclopedic knowledge of Robert Smirke’s architecture wouldn’t help him avenge Danny, at least it would help him avenge everyone else.

“Smirke really outdid himself here,” Tim said after sharing his suspicions, “These tunnels are fucking insane. We’ve been walking for a while now without hitting any dead ends, they have to stretch for miles.”

“Yeah,” said Martin. “Actually— how likely do you think it is that there are other entrances? Other places they connect to the surface?”

“Uh?” Tim thought about it for a moment. “Likely.”

“Well then, maybe whatever killed Jon and tried to burn down the Archives entered through here? Since CCTV didn't show anything weird.”

Tim and Sasha slowed their pace for a moment. Tim’s mind suddenly flashed to the spider-web lighter, how he’d found it so close to the trapdoor. His finger grazed the ziploc bag in his pocket.

“Shit,” he said. “You’re right.”

“The more I learn about our murderer,” Sasha said contemplatively, “the more I suspect they’re just a normal guy. I mean, we’ve talked about this a lot, but I refuse to believe that a malevolent spirit enters a building through a tunnel, commits arson with a lighter, shoots someone with a gun, and then uses magic to finish the job.” 

“But it can’t just be a normal guy though,” Martin said. “I mean, a normal guy can’t cause what— what happened to everyone else, right?”

“I certainly hope not. And if a normal guy _could,_ they wouldn’t lead with human weaponry.”

“See, this is why I really think there’s more than one thing at play here,” Martin said. “Whatever killed Jon— if it could have, I’m sure it would have stopped his heart the way it did with everyone else. But it didn’t. That’s really significant, right? And—”

A crinkling noise echoed through the tunnel, and Martin looked at his foot. Tim pointed his phone torch at it, and discovered that Martin had stepped on what appeared to be, if Tim’s eyes were not deceiving him, a bag of Mint Imperials. Martin gingerly reached down and picked up the bag, face twisted in bafflement. The green plastic shone in the darkness.

“Huh,” Martin said.

“Who’s going into a secret network of spooky tunnels to eat Mint Imperials?” Sasha asked. Tim’s mind immediately turned to the one blindingly obvious answer, and his stomach churned. Sasha processed her own question and came to the same conclusion, eyes suddenly widening in fear.

“Maybe it’s some goth teenagers who want a cool hangout space?” Martin suggested weakly.

“No,” Tim said, voice grim. “Smirke architecture doesn’t attract squatters, and _that’s_ just the stuff that people know about. These tunnels are completely forgotten.”

“I was worried you’d say that,” Martin said. His bafflement had shifted to fear. They all gaped at the bag, and the tunnels seemed to grow darker around them.

“This still might be nothing… let’s just keep looking around and see what we find. Who knows, maybe there are some old beer bottles and MCR albums around the next corner.” Sasha said, attempting to sound lighthearted. Tim nodded, and they kept going.

Admittedly, they didn’t find beer bottles around the next corner, but they did find _wine_ bottles. A few of them, actually, scattered around the stone floor. They were nice wine bottles, too, and upon examination, all produced relatively recently.

“Well,” Sasha said, matter of fact. “I doubt goth teens left _those.”_ She didn't look like she was in the mood to dust for prints.

“Yep,” Tim said. 

“So…” Sasha kicked one of the bottles as she thought, “Either there’s a wine mom who likes Mint Imperials periodically sneaking into these tunnels, or…”

“Someone lives here,” Martin finished. “Has for a while. Do you think—”

“Yes.” Tim said. What else would live in these tunnels but the thing that burned the Archives? What would live down here except for the thing that shot Jon in the face? “Yes I do.”

Honestly, Tim just found it funny that the Murder Ghost liked Mint Imperials. Who liked _Mint Imperials?_

"Let’s get out of here,” Martin said.

“Yes,” said Sasha, face pale. “Let’s.”

Unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy. This was Smirke they were dealing with, after all, and simply going back the way they came wasn’t an option. Now, the twisting halls seemed to have a personal vendetta against them, the stone walls caging them in, the darkness pressing down on them. They had allowed themselves to become hopelessly lost on the way in, and now they were hopelessly lost on the way out as well. Trapped in secret underground tunnels, probably with a murderer or two to boot.

Part of Tim _wanted_ to bump into the culprit, if only so he could try to kick their ass. Maybe he’d get shot in the process, but it would be worth it if he landed a square punch to the thing’s jaw. The other two were scared out of their wits— Sasha was hiding it well and Martin… wasn’t— but Tim was just pissed off. If they were going to get lost in Millbank Prison, they might as well do something useful in the process.

Finally, after what must have been hours of desperate wandering, Tim’s torch landed on a door. An actual door! He sighed in relief. They must have been in the tunnels for hours, and as much as he liked Smirke’s work in principle, he wasn’t a fan of being trapped in it. 

“Oh thank God,” Sasha said.

“Where do you think we’re going to come out?” Martin asked.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Tim said, and he opened the door.

The door was not an exit.

Instead, behind it was a small square room, dusty and long abandoned. Old boxes full of who knew what were piled high against the walls, making the room seem even smaller than it actually was. There was no light, save for their three phone torches, which all pointed at the thing in the center of the room: slumped forward in a rotted wooden chair, jaw hanging loose, was Gertrude Robinson. And guess what? She had three perfect, bloodied bullet holes in her chest. 


	4. Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin strikes out on his own and comes across some peculiar things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I keep saying this and I feel like a broken record, but I just need to thank every single person who's commented. Thank you for all the kind words!! seriously, you all are so wonderful, and your comments mean the world to me! I haven't posted any of my writing online since I was in middle school, so all this positive feedback has been super heartening for me. Thanks! 
> 
>   
> A note for returning readers: i was trying to hammer out some timing stuff, and I went back and messed with the dates on which things happen. It's nothing major, and is mostly for my own satisfaction. Just don't be confused if you notice that some dates have changed. 
> 
>   
> Without further ado, please enjoy today's chapter! Apologies for the slightly longer wait, it did not want to be written. Once it's over, if you feel like it, don't hesitate to tell me what you think!

Martin had seen enough corpses for his taste, thank you very much. At the very least, Gertrude Robinson wasn’t quite as gut wrenching as Jon. For one, she had to have been here since, what, April or May? That might as well have been an epoch ago. And besides, Martin hadn’t known her nearly as well as he’d known Jon. Jon had… God, it had _hurt_ so viscerally to see him dead. Everything about that picture of his bloodied body had been _wrong._ But Gertrude? To Martin, she was simply an old corpse.

That said, he still wanted to throw up when he saw her. As soon as he laid eyes on her pallid face, he had to resist the urge to flee into the darkness, if only to not be around more of the dead. The only thing that stopped him was that the tunnels weren’t a much better alternative. Because regardless of how well he’d known her, regardless of how long she’d been dead: that was still the rotting body of Gertrude Robinson in front of him, covered in dust, slumped and still, eyes blank, flesh molding at the edges, moth-bitten cardigan drenched in blood, with three dark holes in her chest—

She had been shot. Just like Jon, she’d been shot. In the chest. Three times. Gertrude Robinson, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Just like Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. And now she was sitting in a chair, just like Jon, dead, just like Jon, with three gunshot wounds in her chest— _just like Jon._

Martin _really_ did want to throw up.

The moment their torches landed on Gertrude, Tim turned away and hissed, leaning against the cold brick tunnel wall to steady himself. Sasha had the opposite reaction; inching closer, ever curious, transfixed on the body. But Martin didn’t register any of that. He was too busy focusing on not panicking and not throwing up, having much more success with the latter than the former. This was all just _too much._ The sinister tunnels had been distressing enough, not to mention that they were probably lost down there with a murderer— Jon’s murderer— _Gertrude’s_ murderer— 

This place was too small, too enclosed. He was _trapped,_ trapped in the twisting tunnels, trapped with Gertrude Robinson, like he was a prisoner of old Millbank itself. But— he wasn’t alone, he had to remind himself as he took in a deep breath and tried to wrestle back some focus. Maybe he wasn’t safe, but he _wasn’t alone._ That had to count for something.

“Martin?” Tim’s hand was suddenly on Martin’s shoulder “Are you okay?”

Martin put down his torch, and Gertrude was once again consumed in darkness. He felt better not having to look at her. “Yeah,” he rasped. “I— uh, yeah.” 

Tim scoffed. “Me neither, pal” he said with a tired sort of levity. 

Martin sighed. “It’s just— _Jon—”_

“Yeah.”

“It’s just like Jon.”

“Yeah.” Tim voice was quieter this time. Even in the shadows, his face was dark. 

“I don’t—” Martin struggled to find anything helpful to say. _“Why?”_

“I’d rather like to know that as well. But I doubt the answer is anything good.”

“Probably not.” Martin gazed into the dark room, at Sasha’s waving torch moving across the stacks of boxes. He took a deep breath to steady himself, said, “Well, guess we'll have to find out somehow,” and stepped inside. 

He went to the edge of the room, ignoring Gertrude Robinson’s corpse, and began digging through a particularly nasty pile of boxes. To Martin’s confusion, every single one appeared to be filled with dust-covered cassette tapes. It wasn’t… quite what Martin had expected to find in the spooky corpse room in the haunted tunnels below the paranormal research facility. Then again, he wasn’t sure what _wouldn’t_ have surprised him. Cursed artifacts? Human hearts? Leitners, maybe?

From the other side of the room, Sasha exclaimed “Oh!” She somehow managed to sound excited in the dismal place.

“Did you find something other than tapes?” Martin asked, walking over to her.

“No! No, these aren’t just tapes. These are real statements,” Sasha said in amazement as she ferociously dug through a box. “All of these are _real statements.”_

Tim turned to look at her from where he was examining the stains on the floor. “What?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Remember all those statements that wouldn’t record on anything digital? The ones Jon had to use actual, honest to God tapes for. They were always more consistent, more credible, more well-supported, more, well, _real_ than any of the others.” Sasha shook the box she was searching through for emphasis. “And what do we have here?”

Martin followed Sasha’s train of thought, and his eyes widened. Tim said, “Oh fuck.”

 _“Exactly._ We have dozens, maybe hundreds of _tapes._ Who knows what we could find. This is a gold mine!”

Martin had to agree. The Archives had been so disorganized that searching for good information was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Sure, he’d uncovered a few potentially useful statements, but he had no way of knowing how credible they were. Having what was, if Martin had to guess, _all_ of Gertrude Robinson’s good tapes made things much simpler. 

But as much as Martin appreciated Sasha’s energy, he couldn’t match it. Finding evidence didn’t change the fact that they were in an eerie underground room with a corpse. 

“That’s great and all, but maybe we could finish this conversation outside of the creepy tunnels?” Martin said. “I do _not_ like it down here. Especially around…”

“... Right,” Sasha said as she gave Gertrude a mournful glance, mood quieted. “Well, I doubt we can carry all these on one trip, so we’ll have to mark our path back to the surface… anyone have any ideas?” 

—

After a long search and the placing of numerous improvised trail markers, the three of them at last emerged from the tunnels, covered in dust and hauling boxes of cassette tapes. They loaded as many as possible into Tim’s car before driving to his house to order pizza and puzzle through what they’d uncovered. 

The elephant in the room was Gertrude Robinson. She had been murdered, and her murder bore a striking resemblance to Jon’s. The immediate and obvious conclusion was that Jon and Gertrude’s murderers were one in the same, which the three of them agreed upon readily. Coupled with the fact that the murderer was potentially living below the Institute… it didn't paint a pretty picture. The thought of a crazed gunman/arsonist who liked to murder Head Archivists being right there sent a shiver down Martin’s spine. 

Although, that might not have been what was going on. It was possible that Jon’s murderer wasn’t living in the tunnels, or that Gertrude and Jon were killed by different people, and it was unwise to jump to conclusions. But Tim wasn’t particularly receptive to that thought process and, honestly, neither was Martin. Sasha stressed the fallibility of circumstantial evidence, but she still threw her support their working theory. 

They had multiple leads to follow, like the fingerprints Sasha had taken in the Archives. Martin trusted her ability to hack into the UK’s fingerprint database, although she openly admitted that it was a higher status target than she was used to dealing with. 

Other than that, Martin had actually found a few statements in the Archives— nothing substantial, but in particular the one about the newscaster who thought she was being watched seemed promising, at least tangentially. The three of them discussed it, and although it was reminiscent of whatever “Beholding” they had felt watching them a few times, they couldn’t be sure that it was connected. Then again, they weren’t sure about anything with the Beholding, save for the fact that it watched them occasionally. What was it? How was it connected to the Institute and their investigation? The only person who might know was Peter Lukas, and Martin didn’t want to talk to him again. Peter had made him feel very cold. 

After reading the newscaster’s statement they were exhausted, so they left things there for the night. The next morning, they began going through Gertrude’s tapes. The results were… interesting. 

Sasha was right; they all appeared to be real statements. At the very least, Gertrude treated them all like they were real. Martin had once had a strong conception of who Gertrude Robinson was: old and frail and senile, barely capable of doing her job and only slightly better at withstanding a strong gust of wind. So it was odd to hear her so seriously and pragmatically discuss the paranormal. As soon as they finished the first tape, Sasha turned to Tim and said “I _told_ you she was stone cold.” Martin had to agree. She was a _hardass._ And none of them knew what to make of her weird, encyclopedic knowledge of the supernatural.

Although the statements themselves ended up being largely irrelevant to the investigation, they were fascinating, and more than a little horrifying. Martin could not help but listen in rapt attention to every single spine-chilling tale. He wasn’t alone either— the others were equally enraptured, and Tim had apparently found the one about a Russian circus particularly frightening, given how quiet he was afterwards. 

And there were so _many_ of them. They listened to as many as they could, and didn’t even get through a fraction of what they’d found. To think that all of them were real, legitimate supernatural happenings… it was a disturbing thought. Martin had never considered himself a skeptic or anything, but he’d never imagine that the supernatural was so commonplace, so… ordinary. So ordinary that Gertrude discussed it like it was the weather. And if the paranormal was that normal, then for all he knew there was nothing noteworthy at all about what had happened to the Institute.

Martin wondered what Jon would have thought of that. 

The first potentially relevant statement they came across didn’t shed much light on who the culprit(s) could be, but it did provide insight into what might have motivated them. Or, more accurately: what made the Archives so special. 

It was a statement nearly two decades old, a war veteran recalling a chance visit to the Serapeum of Alexandria— which was, if Gertrude Robinson was to be believed, an early iteration of the Magnus Archives. None of them knew what to think of that conclusion, nor of the possible “Archivist” Walter Heller had encountered. Was the Serapeum, too, a catalog of the supernatural? If the supernatural existed now, then surely it existed two thousand years ago; but would ancient peoples have cataloged it the way a more modern, scientific society would? 

The three of them debated the validity of the statement, and ultimately the only conclusion they could reach was that maybe the Magnus Archives had some sort of supernatural power in their own right, and maybe the concept of a supernatural archive had existed for millennia, and maybe that was a good motive for someone to kill Head Archivists. Or maybe Walter Heller had dementia.

Then they found a statement with a potential culprit. 

“Let’s see here…” Martin said as he dusted the cobwebs off the cassette he’d picked for them to listen to next. “Statement… #0090202. Wonder what it says?”

The statement immediately piqued their interest. The statement giver, one Arthur Nolan, clearly knew Gertrude, and clearly _hated_ her. As much as the idea of Gertrude Robinson having _enemies_ may have once been alien to Martin, given what he now knew about her it checked out. And Gertrude had apparently made enemies of, of all things, a fire cult. Which was… you know what, at this point Martin was just going to roll with it. He’d heard weirder within the past day. 

The bizarre recording captivated them. It was a new level of strange to listen as Gertrude casually alluded to committing murder (?), and doing magic (??), and, uh, if Martin was hearing it correctly, “Fear Gods” (??? he had enough mysteries on his plate to try and unpack that one). It was just as strange to learn what an antagonistic relationship she had with this “Lightless Flame” cult. Nolan seemed to have to try to _not_ murder her. But Martin had to wonder how good his self control really was.

Each reference to the cult’s messiah, who was apparently named Agnes, nagged at Martin. He felt like he’d heard that name somewhere before. Only when Gertrude offhandedly mentioned Raymond Fielding’s relationship to Hill Top Road did it click: the Lensik statement! They were talking about Agnes Fielding! Or, Montague, if Martin’s follow-up held any water. 

At a first glance, Martin had a hunch that the Lightless Flame had some role to play in Jon’s death. He wasn’t trying to jump to conclusions, but there was logic to a fire cult that hated Gertrude killing Archivists and burning Archives. 

“Alright,” Sasha said after the tape finished. “Thoughts?”

“Gertrude Robinson is terrifying.” Tim said.

“So is that Nolan guy,” Martin said. “All that violence and fire imagery does _not_ sit well with me. And it’s impressive how much he hated Gertrude…”

“For good reason too, if she really did, uh, what was it? Stop their messiah from completing a magical ritual?” Sasha shook her head. “Or something like that.”

“I think he might have done it,” Martin said. “Killed Jon and Gertrude, I mean. He’s clearly motivated.”

Sasha hummed. “I mean, Gertrude seemed pretty confident that he couldn't... ” 

“Fire cults and arson _do_ go together rather nicely, though” Tim said. “Although, if the Lightless Flame really is magic, I’d expect them to be able to shoot fireballs or something…”

Another thought crossed Martin’s mind. “Hold on. Gertrude mentioned being bound by something called the Web, right? And going back to the Lensik statement, wasn’t there something having to do with spiders? I remember spiders being a thing.”

Sasha nodded. “Yeah! there was a box under a tree and the box had an apple made of spiders in it,” she said. “A bit strange… you think it’s connected?”

“The lighter,” Martin said.

Sasha blinked at Martin. Tim snapped and finger-gunned at him in approval.

“Yeah, I guess the uh, imagery there checks out,” Sasha said.

“Okay,” Tim said. “If we’re going to come up with even more reasons to suspect this cult: we’d just wrapped up research on the Lensik statement, right? What if this cult killed Jon because we were digging into their history?”

It made sense. Kill Gertrude in vengeance, kill her successor preemptively before they mess with you, try to burn their place of work so they _definitely_ don’t mess with you. At least, it made sense to Martin. This entire mystery was so chaotic, with so many disparate and twisted threads, and Martin was glad to grab onto this one potential line of truth. Maybe it wasn’t yet well substantiated, but Martin so desperately wanted it to make sense. If not for himself, then for the Institute. And for Jon. 

“Okay, I see your point, but a few things,” Sasha said. “One: what about the rest of the Institute? Two: what about the tunnels? Three: why would this fire cult kill people with guns?” 

“It—” Tim cut off. “Uh— guns are powered by explosions? Shooting people is easier than trying to light them on fire? But you’ve got me on the rest of the Institute, and the tunnels. I don’t know how fire cultists would see _Mint Imperials_ as an acceptable choice of sweets.”

“Well, if you assume that whatever killed Jon and Gertrude is separate from whatever killed everyone else, which I still think is a fair assumption, that issue is moot,” Martin said. “And, yeah, I don’t know about the tunnels either, but maybe there’s something we’re missing that’ll iron out that connection.”

“Look, you have to admit that this is all pretty circumstantial,” Sasha said, “so I wouldn’t recommend jumping to any conclusions. But… admittedly, a lot of our evidence is circumstantial right now, and it can’t hurt to look into this cult. Explore the possibility that they’re involved.” Martin and Tim nodded in agreement. “We should do what research we can, and… if it’s possible, it might be a good idea to visit Hill Top Road.” 

If Hill Top Road was tied to the Lightless Flame, and if it was as cursed as the Lensik statement made it out to be, it might have important evidence. For all they knew, they’d find something essential to their investigation, like Gertrude with Agnes’ hair clippings. And who cared if a supernatural power was manipulating their progress if it was still progress?

Martin wanted to be there. He wanted to know what secrets Hill Top Road kept. For Jon. 

“Do you guys want me to go?” Martin said. “I don’t exactly have any plans next weekend. I can take the train.”

Tim shrugged. “No complaints. I have a cop to seduce then, anyways.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll try and do some digging in the meantime, see what I can uncover on the Lightless Flame” Sasha said. “Be sure to tell us what you find there.”

He would. For Jon. 

—

The next Saturday, Martin boarded a train to Oxford in order to investigate a haunted house with probable ties to a fire cult. He didn’t have much to do during the ride, but about halfway through Georgie sent him a very smug picture of The Admiral along with the caption “this nasty man just threw up on my rug,” to which he responded with at least seven heart emojis and five cat emojis. Then, their conversation turned to their respective plans for the day; Georgie was recording an episode of her podcast, and Martin told her that he was visiting Oxford without elaborating on why. After that, Georgie sent Martin a bad hot take she’d found on Twitter, and they dunked on it for a while until Martin reached his stop. 

The fact that he was even acquaintances with Georgie Barker in the first place still impressed him. They’d started texting after Jon’s funeral, at first just about the supernatural— Georgie ran a ghost podcast, and she was curious about Martin’s time at the Magnus Institute— but then they hit it off, and now Martin might even consider her a friend. They’d even gotten coffee together once. It had been nice.

He… hadn’t mentioned what had happened to the Institute, and if Georgie knew, she hadn’t told him. Maybe he should have. No, he definitely should have. But he enjoyed talking to someone who didn’t know about everything. As much as Martin was glad to have Sasha and Tim, sometimes the shadow of the Institute hanging over them was impossible to ignore.

Martin disembarked and made his way to 105 Hill Top Road, heart racing with anticipation. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to find, but he had a feeling that it was going to be good. Once Martin reached the building, however, he had to admit it wasn’t particularly impressive— not notably old or downtrodden, or even all that spooky. It simply stood there, and the way it seemed to loom ominously over Martin was almost certainly all in his head. 

But more importantly: there were no cars in the driveway, and no one appeared to be home. Perfect. 

He circled around the back of the house past a wide pit of overturned earth, feet crunching on the dead lawn. He shimmied open a window, hoping that none of the neighbors were watching, and although it took some maneuvering he eventually pulled himself up through the window and into the house’s kitchen.

The inside of the building was… empty. Much emptier than he’d expected. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, so thick he left footprints when he walked. There was no furniture, no decor, not even a single chair— the only signs of life were the exorbitant number of cobwebs covering every surface, and the occasional silver worm which Martin would instinctively stomp out. It didn’t seem like another soul had been here for years. Sasha had found the paper copy of the Lensik statement, as well as their follow up research— Jon hadn’t made a recording yet when he… well— and supposedly, two separate families had lived in the house since it had been built. He doubted that was actually the case. 

Martin scoured the house for anything noteworthy whatsoever, but found nothing. Every room was just as empty and useless as the last. The entire place might as well have been a blank slate. But just as Martin was growing frustrated, while dejectedly inspecting the foyer he noticed a set of footprints leading out the door, their shapes clear in the dusty floor. Martin had entered through a window. So who had left these footprints?

He leaned in closer, examining the footprints. They weren’t the clearest, but they definitely weren’t his— actually, if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, there were not one but _two_ sets, both following the same path, one entering the house and one exiting. Martin eagerly followed them to their other end; they led through the foyer, into the living room, and entered a small cupboard under the stairs. At last, he’d discovered something useful!

Martin touched the cupboard’s handle. It was oddly warm, like there was a fire raging behind the door. A _fire._ Martin wanted to rip open the cupboard and face the other side— but at the same time, fear tempered his fervor. Whatever was beyond the door might be dangerous. It might be Arthur Nolan himself, or whatever had killed Jon. But he wouldn’t know until he opened the door. 

He pulled on the handle, and the cupboard swung open with an angry creak. Beyond the door was a set of dingy stairs, descending into darkness. They looked older than the house he was standing in, perhaps a relic from the original building. Regardless of their age, they were certainly not what he expected to find in a cupboard.

Dread washed over him. This was just like the tunnels all over again. Fuck, Martin had _hated_ the tunnels. They were so dark and eerie and labyrinthine. It would be just his luck to find essential evidence, only for it to come in the form of a _second_ set of underground tunnels.

Martin pulled out his phone to use as a torch, took in a deep breath, and descended down the steps. 

The staircase was longer than Martin thought it would be. It seemed to stretch on for an unnatural amount of time, as if it was savoring his fear. With every step he took, the air thickened and warmed, and constant cobwebs crisscrossed his path, forcing him to wave a hand in front of him to bat them out of the way. It was like the very air was trying to close him in and trap him. 

At the bottom of the staircase, he found himself in an earthen room, full of unfinished brickwork and smelling of mildew, the shadows writhing in the corners. If he thought the upstairs of the house was too spidery, he’d seen nothing yet— the walls were practically _made_ of spiderwebs, like their threads were struts holding up the very room, foundation holding up the entire house. But Martin’s eyes were drawn past all of that, to the very center of the room, where the dirty concrete floor was sliced in half and split wide open by a jagged gash. 

The crack crossed the entire room. It was long and twisted, about half a meter wide at the thickest, its edges uneven, like an ugly wound. The darkness within it seemed to be a physical thing, untouched by the light of his torch. Martin stared at it, mesmerized. If he took just a few solemn steps forward, he would be swallowed up in the fissure, lost and falling in shadow forever. Looking at it felt _wrong._ It was not supposed to be there.

And then, as he gazed at the crack, Martin heard something _move._

He snapped his torch towards the source of the noise in the corner of the room, and recoiled when he saw the shadow of a woman half-robed in cobwebs staring back at him. Collapsed eyes peeked out from beneath the oily black hair which dripped down her face. The webs wrapped around her like a shawl, like she hadn’t moved for centuries. His torch cast odd shadows against her ashen skin, and it took Martin a moment to realize that she was covered and covered and covered with hundreds of _holes._

Martin screamed and staggered backwards. At the sound, the figure lunged towards him in a stiff, jerky motion, trying to disentangle herself from the cobwebs to reach him. She opened her mouth, garbling out some phrase Martin didn’t understand, and then from between her ebon teeth came the worms. They emerged from every hole in her skin in a wriggling silver wave, squirming towards Martin with alarming speed. Before he could flee, one leapt at him, and he reflexively batted it out of the air with his phone, losing his grip on it in the process. As his phone sailed out of his hand and into the sea of worms, torchlight wildly flashing around the room, Martin turned and ran. 

He tore out of the basement, out of the blessedly unlocked front door of the empty house, down the street, not stopping or even glancing back until he was sitting safe on a bus headed to the train station, doing his best to calm down and failing miserably. When he peeked out of the bus window, he could have sworn the thing was standing at the end of the street, watching him, but before he could be sure he was away and gone. 

—

Martin didn’t relax until he reached his flat. He made himself a bowl of cereal for dinner and fell asleep ten minutes later in his warm, cozy, _safe_ bed. But when he woke up the next morning, the adrenaline having left his system, he had nothing to do but wonder what the hell had just happened. 

That worm woman… who was she? _What_ was she? Martin pored over his memories of the Magnus Institute, trying to remember if he’d ever come across anything like that, at last recalling the Hodge statement. So that was Jane Prentiss then? Maybe? 

Did she have something to do with the Institute? Martin only entertained the thought for a moment. No, of course not; if she’d massacred the Institute, the worms would have been obvious. Martin had to face the fact that his visit to Hill Top Road had been pointless, and that he had been absolutely wrong in his conviction that it wouldn’t be.

He’d found nothing in the house but— what, an odd crack in the ground and a worm monster? How did those help their investigation? There was nothing related to the Lightless Flame or any of their other numerous leads. And in fact, all he had accomplished was getting the attention of a worm monster and losing his phone. 

And now he’d have to get a new phone! It wasn’t like money was tight or anything. Not to mention that he didn’t have any way to contact Georgie, so that one budding friendship was a bust, goodbye to pictures of the Admiral and nice conversations about nothing, and his phone had all his old conversations with Jon on it— 

Jon would have talked some sense into him. Jon would have told him that his visit to Hill Top Road was ill advised, and that he was a fool for entertaining it. Jon would have pointed out every single hole in the connection between the Lightless Flame and the murders of everyone at the Institute without breaking a sweat. And Jon would have been right. 

Martin felt very small and very useless. Why had he been so stupid to think that he could do something _right?_ He couldn’t care for his mother, he couldn’t handle his job at the Institute, and now he couldn’t avenge people properly. He’d only believed that Hill Top Road would have evidence because he’d _wanted_ to believe it. And look where that overzealous attempt to do something good had gotten him now. Why did Tim and Sasha trust him? Why did they listen to any of his ideas? Why did they even still talk to him? He wouldn’t have blamed them for ghosting him after the Institute imploded. He wasn’t much more than a bother anyways.

He missed when the Institute still existed. When all he’d had to worry about was doing research and hiding his stupid crush on his jerk boss. But now everyone at the Institute was dead, and he missed every single day he’d taken for granted there. Every lunch at the canteen, every awkward break room conversation, every dry email. He missed everything and everyone. And despite himself, he missed Jon, in all his prickly, beautiful glory. He still wasn’t sure what to do with himself, now that it was all gone; he clearly wasn’t cut out for this investigation, so where did that leave him? What was he worth?

It was a Sunday, and Martin didn’t have much to do. He considered hauling out his old laptop and emailing Sasha and Tim, but that just— it was too much effort. Besides, they probably didn’t want to hear about his failures. He certainly didn’t want them to know what a waste Hill Top Road had been. No, it was easier to lie in bed and do his best not to think about that. So that was what he did. 

He’d deal with the world tomorrow. 

— 

Tomorrow came earlier than expected when Martin was awoken early in the morning by a methodical knocking at his door. 

He considered ignoring it. It would certainly be easier than dealing with whoever was bothering him at dark o’clock in the morning. Yet… he didn’t often have visitors to his flat. And it might be nice to talk to someone, even if it was just a neighbor he barely knew. He didn’t know _why_ anyone would be interested in seeing him, but he supposed that there was only one way to find out.

Martin dragged himself out of bed and shuffled to the door, not bothering to turn on the lights. But as he was about to open it, he glimpsed a wriggling shadow out of the corner of his eye. He looked down sharply— a worm had crawled from under the crack in his front door, its silver body just barely visible in the darkness. A silver worm. One of Prentiss’ worms.

Martin acted without thinking, smashing it into the carpet under his foot with a wet squelch. Then another came through, and he smashed that one too. And another, and another, and another, and another, and another— 

The next half hour was a blur of panic. Martin stomped his feet wildly as a barrage of worms tried to reach him, and once the deluge had at last slowed he swept through his flat, gathering blankets and towels to stop up every crack in his windows, every vent, every potential entrance for the worms. Once it was all said and done, Martin was secure in his flat— that is to say, he was trapped in his flat with a worm monster trying to kill him. It was better than nothing, but it wasn’t great. 

Martin sat in the middle of his flat, staring anxiously at the door as Prentiss knocked, and tried to figure out what to do next. He was trapped, with no way to contact the outside world— his laptop was dead, and so was his power, which was lovely— with enough canned peaches to last him a little less than a month, should she choose not to leave. The thought of being trapped alone in the flat for that long made fear stir in his stomach.

What did she even want from him? All he’d done was go into her weird basement— why had she followed him all the way from Oxford? Did he just smell like a good kill? Martin couldn’t fathom what he had done to deserve this. But it was just his luck that a worm monster would decide to kill him specifically. 

As the sky outside turned a twilight blue, Martin pondered how long he would last. What if he’d missed a sliver of an entrance into his apartment? What if Prentiss gave up on politely knocking and broke down the door? And what if she didn’t go away? What if he was trapped here until his peaches ran out, and he was left to slowly starve to death to the sound of Prentiss’ rhythmic knocks? Was that how he died, then? Eaten by worms, or starved? He rather would have preferred a heart attack. Or a bullet. 

A part of him wondered if it was even worth it to try and survive, should things come to it. Maybe it would be easier to just… give up. Let the worms consume him. He was sure Tim and Sasha would uncover what had happened to the Institute without him. He hadn’t known Georgie that long, so she wouldn’t miss him. And who else did he have? His coworkers at HarperCollins? His _mother?_ He didn’t think so. No, there wasn’t anyone who would miss him if Jane Prentiss ate him right here and now, not a single soul who— 

Someone was watching Martin. The oppressive prickling sensation came over him suddenly and without warning. His breath caught in his throat, and the knocking on his door abruptly stopped. He felt eyes not just looking at him, but looking _into_ him, as if he was being _known._ Although the action was pointless, Martin glanced around the room wildly, as if his beholder was hiding behind a bookshelf or a table. He had felt this before, this so-called _Beholding,_ when Peter Lukas had attacked the archival assistants and at Jon’s funeral. But why was it watching him? He wanted to ask, wanted to know, but he was pinned in place under the relentless gaze, voice stuck in his throat. 

And then, as suddenly as it had come, the pressure abated, and he was once again alone. He took in a deep breath, relieved to be released from that intense scrutiny. After a moment, the tapping at his door began anew. 

Back to the status quo, then. Martin shoved his concerns of the Beholding out of his mind to instead focus on the matter at hand. Was there any way to get rid of Prentiss? Martin wasn’t sure how one would go about killing a worm monster, but surely there had to be some way to do it, right?

What if Prentiss attacked one of his neighbors? They didn’t know what she was, or what she was capable of, or how to kill her. Except— how had none of them noticed yet? Given the light outside it was probably nearing seven in the morning, and surely some of his neighbors should have been awake at this point, or even going to work. At this point _Martin_ was supposed to be awake, preparing for a job he was almost certainly about to loose. Surely one of them would have noticed the worm monster loudly knocking on his door, right?

Either they hadn’t noticed or they hadn’t cared. Martin wasn’t sure which possibility was worse. 

Distantly, Martin remembered the date. December 14th. If his memory was not mistaken, today was Jon’s birthday. Martin should have spent today with Tim and Sasha watching Jon begrudgingly blow out the candles on a birthday cake (because he _knew_ it would have been begrudging), not trapped alone in his flat by a worm monster. The sheer injustice of it broke Martin’s heart. 

So Martin continued to stare at his door, listening to Prentiss continue to knock, quietly humming the happy birthday song to himself. As dull as it was, Martin was alert the entire time, unwilling and unable to let his guard down for fear that he would let something slip past his defenses. His only hope was that Tim or Sasha would notice that he was gone and care enough to check on him, or that one of his neighbors would ask about the strange woman at his door, or that Prentiss would simply give up. But Martin wasn’t particularly optimistic. 

Then, out of nowhere, the knocking stopped, and someone on the other side of the door let out a strangled gasp. Martin tensed, adrenaline spiking and static building in his ears. He inched towards the door, trying to discern what was happening. A woman’s voice filtered through from the other side, groaning with effort as if struggling against something. After a moment, the grunts gave way to relieved gasps.

And then the screaming began.

It was a terrible noise. Shrill and distorted and multitudinous, like it was not one creature screaming but a thousand creatures screaming as one. Martin reflexively covered his ears and backed away from the door, as little as that helped. It continued for an eternity, one long note, undercut with a strange hissing noise, like air escaping a can. Eventually, it faded away, and Martin was left with his ears ringing, staring at his door once again.

And then, above the ringing, someone spoke.

“Martin, I—” The voice cut off, and when it spoke again, there was something mournful to it. “Prentiss is gone, Martin. Goodbye.”

And Martin— he could have _sworn_ that the voice behind that door— that it was _Jon’s._ Except it couldn’t be Jon. Because Jon was dead. And Jon never, _never_ would have said Martin’s name _so softly._

He gaped at the door in disbelief, his heart in his throat and tears in his eyes. What— was this just a strange ploy of Prentiss’ to lull him into a false sense of security? Could he trust whoever that was? He wanted to trust it, whatever it was, because it _sounded_ like _Jon,_ as unwise as the impulse was. He wanted to fling open the door of his flat and see who was there, because what if it was Jon, even though he knew it wasn’t, it couldn’t be, he had misheard it, he was delusional. It wasn’t Jon, he told himself. He just _wanted_ it to be Jon. it couldn’t be Jon. 

But what if it was? What if Jon wasn’t dead? What if he was a ghost? If worm monsters existed, why couldn’t ghosts? But did Martin really trust himself to know? He’d been so sure that Hill Top Road would be useful when it had been empty, so sure that the Lightless Flame was guilty with minimal proof. How could he know he wasn’t mistaken? But then again, how could he know he was?

Eventually, after minutes passed without any other noises, and the ringing in his ears subsided, Martin approached the door. Slowly, cautiously, he cracked it open, and was relieved when he did not die. There were no worms to jump out at him. There was no phantasmal Jon to greet him. 

No, the only thing there was the body of Jane Prentiss, surrounded in a halo of dead, silver worms. Martin was alone, with nothing but unanswered questions for company. 


	5. Revenants, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha attends celebrations, thinks about ghosts, and asks the important questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! At long last, chapter 5 is here! apologies for the long wait-- hopefully, this is worth it.
> 
> You my have noticed that this chapter is on the shorter side: that's because it's a two-parter! this chapter got so long I decided to cut in in half. As a result, the next chapter is like 80% done, so expect that to be posted within the next week.
> 
> However, after that, I'm not sure how long chapter 7 will take. I'm starting college, and I don't know how much free time I'm going to have. Hopefully, it won't take longer than this one did lol
> 
> Anyways: please enjoy, and leave a comment if you have anything you want to say! And apologies for my tenuous grasp on how hacking works.

Tim took another frustrated bite of cake. “So I decide to walk her to the door of her flat,” he said once he finished chewing, “and like, she doesn’t tell me _not_ to, but I don’t think she was happy about it either. But I only process that about halfway to her flat, and at that point I'm committed. So after a silent, awkward trek through her building we reach the door, and I get the nerve to ask her if she’d be interested in another date, and she says, ‘I’ll call you,’ in a tone of voice that tells me she’d rather eat a cactus. And she goes into her flat and immediately slams the door behind her.”

“Jesus,” Sasha said as she absentmindedly watched her computer screen. She had a scanner running on the IDENT1 fingerprint database’s login page, and was keeping an eye on it while talking with Tim. Her own piece of cake sat neglected on her kitchen table. It was a decent cake, not the best she’d ever had, but decent; Tim had bought it at Tesco before arriving at Sasha’s flat, along with a box of red wine they’d yet to open. The cake was chocolate, with vanilla frosting, and the words _“HAPPY BIRTHDAY”_ piped on the top— fitting, given the occasion. 

Jon would have been twenty eight today. It seemed important to remember that. 

In order to commemorate the day, Tim and Sasha had decided to meet after work. Martin had of course been invited, but he’d declined — apparently he’d gotten badly sick over the weekend, sick enough to reject Sasha’s offer to bring him some cake. So there the two of them were: sitting at her kitchen table, reminiscing about Jon, eating cake, and discussing the progress in their investigation. Or, more accurately, lamenting. 

“But here’s the kicker: as she’s entering her flat I get a quick glimpse inside, and I see that other cop, Tonner— she’s sitting on the couch, and she makes eye contact with me for a split second, and I _swear_ that much sheer _hatred_ has not been aimed at me since I replaced all Jon’s pens with crayons. Basira could never.”

Sasha gaped at Tim in awe. _“No.”_

“I shit you not. It was like she was a hawk, and I was a mouse she was deciding whether or not she wanted to kill.” 

“Oh my god, Tim, that’s— that’s heinous.”

“How do you think _I_ feel? I was there!”

Sasha nodded, and went back to staring at the log-in page. “Well… it could have gone worse? At least she didn’t slap you.

Tim sighed and tapped his fork against his plate. “Okay sure, it wasn’t an epic disaster, but Basira slapping me would have been a _reaction_ _._ But there was _nothing!_ She didn’t even pretend to care. And she wouldn’t talk about herself! She was fine listening to me ramble on about whatever, but the second I try to ask her about her interests? Awkward silence.”

“Are you sure you weren’t too busy listening to the sound of your own voice to realize she wasn’t interested?” Sasha teased. 

“But I tried to get her to open up. I asked her questions and shit, but I got a blank stare the entire time. She wouldn’t even tell me what her favorite movie was. I asked her and she _shrugged._ Does that woman have a life? Does she have hobbies? Is she just _like that?_ I take her to a nice restaurant and pull out all the stops, and she reacts with stone cold neutrality?”

“Honestly? I respect her ability to be disinterested in you. What’s her secret? It’s _very_ easy to find you attractive.”

“Apparently not,” Tim grumbled, before eating another bite of cake. “I just feel like there should have been _some_ spark, right?”

Sasha hummed. It was dawning on her that Tim was genuinely upset about this, more than she’d realized. “Well, even if there wasn’t, is that a problem? The point of the date wasn’t exactly to begin a lifelong romance.”

“Without a spark, I doubt Basira’s going to give me that tape. So, sorry about that. I know it was important.” Tim pushed his plate away. “I thought I had her, y’know? Yeah, we didn’t hit it off so great— but I thought, wait ‘till she sees this fancy restaurant, and my razor sharp wit, and my sexy outfit. But she just was not interested. I don’t get it. What did I do wrong?” He sighed. “…maybe I never had it.”

Sasha closed her laptop. “Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s not a huge deal. First of all, you’ve _always_ had it, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And second of all, this sounds like a _her_ problem, not a _you_ problem.”

“Are you really sure about that?”

“Of course! I bet she was just tired from a long day. Or maybe you’re not her type. Or maybe it was a pity date.”

Tim snorted. “Kind of a terrible pity date if you ask me.”

“Yeah, no kidding. And I guess Tonner didn’t care for Basira’s idea of pity.”

Tim snorted again. “I don’t think Tonner has cared for a single social interaction in her _life._ That woman terrifies me. Compared to her, Basira practically showered me with adoration.”

Sasha snickered, then said, “I wonder what her deal is. Did we do something to her?”

“Maybe she hates that we forced her to consider doing her job?”

“Maybe… or maybe she’s angry you went on a date with her partner?”

Tim pointed at Sasha. “You make a compelling argument. She wishes she could get a bite of me instead,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. 

_“There_ it is,” Sasha laughed. “How could we be so foolish to think anything else! Tonner fell for the Stoker Charm. You bagged the wrong cop!”

“Alas!” Tim proclaimed. “Defeated once again by my own good looks!”

The two of them broke down into laughter, before Sasha said, “Okay, but in all seriousness, don’t worry about the date. It’s not your fault Basira is a brick wall of a human being. And it’s okay about the tape.” Tim gave her a pointed look at that. She threw up her hands in protest, but when Tim didn’t relent she slumped her shoulders with a sigh. “… Okay, yeah, it does suck. But it’s not your fault.”

“But—”

“It’s _not._ I’ve gone over this. You did your best, and that’s all anyone can expect from you.” 

Tim shrugged. “... I guess that’s fair.”

“I promise you don’t need to beat yourself up over this. We didn’t know if it was gonna be useful anyways. Besides… at this rate, I’m gonna need to break into their police station to do the fingerprints, so we might as well steal evidence while we’re there.”

“The hacking’s going that badly, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s… it’s going,” Sasha said as she reopened her laptop. Tim, clearly eager to change the subject, slid over his chair to get a better look at her screen, where her scanner continued its search. “Usually, I use a backdoor for police records, but I don’t have one for this database, and finding one is proving to be difficult.”

“How difficult are we talking here?”

“Well, I only just gained access to the login page, and that’s _step one._ I’ve been running this scanner all day that’s supposed to find cracks in the database’s security; usually it takes a while, but not this long. Hopefully it’ll find something useful? But I’m not getting my hopes up. So either I need to try something else or give up on the fingerprints entirely.”

“Okay, how else could you get in?”

Sasha considered that for a moment. “I could brute force a password? Steal someone’s login info, maybe? Uh… I could send someone at a police station a phishing email and see if they fall for it? Usually I wouldn’t resort to any of those, but I think I might have to.”

“Ouch,” Tim said. He grabbed his plate of cake and took a bite, before saying, “If it’s not worth the trouble, maybe we should drop it for now.”

“But right now we _need_ to check it out. Considering how nonplussed Basira was, if we want that tape we’re gonna need a plan B. And Martin says the only interesting thing he found at Hill Top Road was some worms, so that lead’s a bust too. I’ve been doing some research into Gertrude’s statements, trying to learn a bit more about the Lightless Flame, but... I haven’t come up with anything particularly useful to the investigation. So at this point, the only lead we have is that fingerprint.”

“Well, that and the person living in the tunnels. Who’s probably the murderer.”

“... You’re not wrong.”

“Remind me why, exactly, we’re bothering with any of this investigation when the murderer is right there?”

“Because we haven't had time? Tim, it's been a week."

"... You make a compelling argument."

"Plus, we aren’t certain that they’re the murderer, or even if there’s still someone down there. _Plus,_ it would be dangerous.”

“We can bring knives. For self defense.”

“Are those going to help against the gun they probably have?”

“So we get guns.”

“Where are we going to get guns? This isn’t America, Tim, you can’t just walk down the street and buy an assault rifle.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “The _store,_ obviously.”

“Of course. The store. Thanks for reminding me,” Sasha said, rolling her eyes. “You’re right that we should figure out who’s living in the tunnels. I just doubt it would be safe…” 

“Sasha, the only person who’s not going to be safe down there is the slimy fucker who killed our friends. Whatever gun he has won’t stand a chance against these hands.” Tim punctuated the statement by wiggling his hands. He was apparently determined not to take her concerns seriously. 

_“Tim,”_ Sasha said, voice dripping with frustration. 

Tim dropped his smile. _“Sasha.”_

It wasn’t that Sasha disagreed with Tim. Their leads were rapidly turning cold, their theories were largely circumstantial, and, frankly, they should have tried to revisit the tunnels sooner. But Sasha could tell that Tim was eager to hunt down whoever was responsible— too eager. And she cared about him too much to let him throw himself into danger like that. 

“You can’t be so cavalier with yourself, Tim, it—” Sasha cut off and looked away. “It worries me. I don’t want something to happen to you, or— God forbid, for you to hurt yourself doing something stupid. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if that happened.” She gazed into his eyes. “Tim, I—” 

There was a knock on the door. 

Tim and Sasha paused. “Do you know who that is?” Tim asked.

“No. A neighbor, maybe? Advertisers aren’t allowed in the building—”

“Sasha? Sasha, are you here?” Martin’s voice filtered through the door. 

Sasha stood up in a hurry and strode to the door. When she opened it, Martin stood before her in rumpled clothes, and his shoulders sagged in relief the moment he saw her. His face was pale, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair clearly hadn’t seen a comb for a few days. 

“Martin?” Sasha asked. “I thought you were sick? What’s going on?”

“Prentiss,” Martin said. 

“What’s a Prentiss?” Tim asked as he appeared from the kitchen, plate in hand.

“Jane Prentiss, she— is that cake?” Martin asked as his eyes caught Tim’s plate.

“Yeah. Want some?”

“Uh, I haven’t eaten much, it’s probably not the best—”

“You need cake,” Tim said. 

With little resistance, Tim and Sasha herded Martin to the couch and shoved a slice of cake into his hands. Then he explained in stilted sentences what had happened to him. As Tim and Sasha grew more and more disturbed, he detailed how he’d found nothing of importance at Hill Top Road, ventured into the basement and discovered Jane Prentiss, who Sasha barely remembered from the Hodge statement. While Tim got him another slice of cake, Martin described how she’d attacked him in his apartment, how he’d felt the Beholding watching him, and how _something_ had rescued him. Then, he finished by telling them how he’d borrowed a neighbor’s phone to call the ECDC and have them deal with… the remains, before being stuck in quarantine all day. Martin wasn’t particularly coherent— after all, he’d been through a lot— but he got the point across.

“And then I came here, I guess,” Martin concluded. “Sorry I didn’t call ahead, since Jane had my phone the ECDC is still holding onto it, and I was so flustered and—”

“It’s fine,” Sasha said. “Really, don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“Me too,” Martin said quietly.

It was concerning, to say the least, that Martin had been targeted by some sort of worm monster. Not to mention that she had followed him all the way from Oxford and impersonated him to Tim and Sasha. On a surface level, she didn’t seem at all connected to the investigation— but if that was the case, what motivated her to attack him?

They followed up by asking Martin some questions, filling in blanks his disjointed story had left behind. Nothing particularly revolutionary came of it, although it helped make the story clearer in Sasha’s mind. It was routine, albeit casual, questioning, the kind that used to come after a statement. 

And then they asked him what killed Prentiss. 

Martin went silent. He averted his eyes, staring at a tea stain in the white carpet that Sasha had never fully cleaned, and began fiddling with a loose thread in his jumper. His face had turned a shade paler. “I mean, well— I guess, maybe— after Prentiss was done dying—” he closed his eyes. “I heard a voice,” he whispered. “From the other side of the door. It— it told me I was safe.”

Sasha sat up at that. That was a crucial detail! Why hadn’t Martin mentioned it before? “Did it say anything else? Could you tell me anything about it?” She asked.

“It— no, it—” Martin hesitated. He then took a deep breath and said, “It sounded like Jon.”

Silence. No one so much as blinked. Sasha gaped at Martin, blood suddenly pounding in her ears, questions bubbling up in her lungs and stopping her breath.

Tim said, in disbelief, “You’re kidding.” 

“I— I’m not kidding. I wouldn’t kid about this. I mean, I’m probably mistaken, it was one sentence through a door, so I’m pretty sure it was me having rubbish hearing—” 

“Martin,” Sasha said very slowly, “what do you mean by ‘it sounded like Jon?’”

“I mean that it _sounded like Jon._ It was Jon’s voice.”

“Jon’s dead.” Tim said. His eyes were wide, his brow scrunched and contorted. Sasha was sure she looked just as shocked as him— how could she not? But there was no way Martin had actually heard Jon… right?

Because even in light of the fact that the supernatural definitely, 100% existed, Sasha couldn’t believe that Jon was alive, or, or something. It was too easy. Too perfect. Maybe if Martin had been more sure of himself, maybe if he had a picture or a recording or even just _confidence,_ Sasha would believe him. But he didn’t have any of those things, so surely, there had to be something else at play. Surely there was something they were missing.

And regardless of proof, the thought of Jon shambling around as some eternally damned revenant made her shudder.

“Of _course_ he’s dead, that’s why we’re here! We all saw— we saw him. I know how _stupid_ I sound right now. But I think I heard him. I don’t know how or— or why, and I don’t blame you for not believing me— I don’t really believe me either. But I just— what if it was him? What if he’s a ghost, or a zombie, or like, a clone, or, I don’t know, uh, a time-traveller? Maybe? Or—”

“Fuck,” Tim said as he put his hand on his face.

“Okay, I doubt that whatever you heard is a clone or a time-traveller.” Sasha said. “And ghosts or zombies don’t necessarily exist either.”

“How do you know that?” Tim mumbled through his hand.

“What?”

“We don’t know that!” Tim said more clearly. “Jon could _absolutely_ be some sort of undead monstrosity.”

“Can you prove it?” Sasha asked.

Tim made a wild gesture with his hands. “Sasha, we’re investigating a magical mass murder, and Martin was just attacked by a Worm Monster. I think we can entertain the possibility of _ghosts existing.”_ He put his head in his hands. “Oh my god, I hate this.”

“I’m sorry.” Martin said. “And— it’s probably not a ghost. Maybe it could have been, but It was probably just one of my neighbors, and my stupid stressed out brain decided it was Jon.”

Sasha looked over at Martin. “Can you tell us more about what you heard? Did you see it at all?” 

“If I saw it, I wouldn’t be this unsure of myself.” Martin said while shaking his head, shoulders tense. “No, I only heard it. It spoke in Jon’s voice and told me that I was safe from Prentiss. It… it sounded nicer than Jon usually did. Sadder, too. But it was still Jon. Or at least, I thought it was Jon. I don’t know.”

“Well, for one, I don’t see why Jon would suddenly be nice to us,” Sasha said.

“Maybe because he _died?”_ Tim said as he lifted his head from his hands. “Seems like a good reason to start being nicer to people to me.”

Martin piped up, “And maybe being a ghost or whatever isn’t fun. Jon didn’t sound very happy—”

“We don’t know that it was Jon.”

“Well if it’s not Jon, what is it?” Tim said. “Because Martin heard _someone_ say _something.”_

“I mean, again, I could have heard someone different and decided it was Jon,” Martin said. “Or I could have hallucinated it, or something.”

“Do you have a history of hallucinations?” Sasha asked.

“Well, no, but—”

“So you probably didn’t hallucinate Jon.”

"I don’t know—”

“Which means there was something there. Whether or not it was Jon—”

“Which it very well _could have been—”_ Tim interjected. 

“— we need to try and discern what it actually was.”

“Well, the only information that we have is that it might have been Jon and that it might have killed Prentiss, it seems to me that the obvious conclusion is that Jon is some flavor of monster now. Or maybe something stole Jon’s voice and is running around with it like a brand new skin.”

“Not really—” Sasha dissented.

“Uh, I don’t know—” Martin stuttered.

“Look, I fucking hate it too, okay? The dead should stay dead. At least then you can move on without them haunting you. But right now, our evidence says that some sort of Jon-thing might be around. Isn’t that how investigations are supposed to work? Aren’t we running out of leads? Isn’t this what we need?”

“What evidence? Martin might have heard something that sounded like Jon— that’s not concrete. You can’t see it and touch it and _hold_ it. Most of the evidence we have right now is circumstantial and somehow this is even worse.”

“Well it’s better than nothing.”

“It _is_ nothing.” Sasha turned to Martin again. “Are you _sure_ you didn’t notice anything else?” She asked. 

Martin laughed. It was a strained noise, the type that a dying cat would make. “No I’m not. I really am not sure of anything right now. That’s _kind of the whole point.”_ Martin stood up and began pacing the room, shoulders tight, hands in his hair. “God, I don’t even know why I said anything. Let’s just forget about this.”

Tim said, “Martin, we can’t dismiss—” 

Sasha said, “Are you really sure—” 

“Would both of you please be quiet for two seconds!” Martin snapped. His breathing was rapidly speeding up. “Sasha, you’re right that my story is bullshit. I’m pretty sure I'm some delusional idiot who's had a break with reality. But— maybe I’m not crazy, and maybe he actually is out there somewhere, somehow, and that sliver of a chance is ripping my heart to _shreds,_ and I don’t— I don’t— _”_

Martin suddenly sat down in the middle of Sasha’s living room. His breathing was fast and heavy with panic, his hands shook, and his eyes were gleaming with tears. By the time Sasha realized he was having a panic attack, Tim was already at his side, a hand on his shoulder, speaking to him in a low voice. She hesitated, unsure of what to do, before deciding to get Martin some water.

When she returned from the kitchen, cup of water in hand, Martin was taking steady breaths and Tim was quietly telling him about a kayaking trip he’d been on. Sasha offered Martin the water and he accepted it, sipping on it while he listened to Tim. The three of them sat there, the only sounds Martin’s slowly calming breaths and Tim’s steady voice. Eventually, Tim went quiet, and there was a peaceful silence.

“I’m sorry,” Martin eventually said.

“No, don’t apologize,” Sasha said. “We shouldn’t have pushed you like that. And I’m— I’m sorry for not believing you.”

Martin shook his head. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t, if I were you. It’s unbelievable.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve just been stewing and ruminating in this all day. I spent _six hours_ in quarantine doing nothing but replaying it over and over and over in my head and trying to figure out if the world was insane or if I was, trying not to _scream,_ and I… I don’t know. I feel like I must be.” 

“Well, I trust your judgement,” Sasha said. “If your judgement is that it probably wasn’t Jon, I’ll believe you, and if you really think it was… I trust you to come to that conclusion. And I don’t think you’re insane.”

“Me neither,” Tim said. “Frankly, you’re saner than I am. And you give Sasha a run for her money.”

“Thanks,” Martin said quietly. After a moment, he spoke. “I miss him.”

“Yeah,” Tim said. Sasha nodded.

“I _want_ it to have been him. I really do, because I want him to still be here. Even though he hated me and wasn’t even that nice of a person— I miss him. I don’t think I should.”

“I disagree.” Sasha said. “He may have been a bit of a prick, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t wish he was still here.”

“And hey, even he would have eventually faced the fact that you’re impossible to hate,” Tim said.

“Maybe you’re right? We can’t know that, can we,” Martin said. “Not unless we hunt down Jon’s ghost.”

“Well actually,” Tim said, “If— _if_ — that was Jon, then there’s a good chance he killed Prentiss. And if he’s watching out for us like that, presumably he likes us. So maybe he came around about you after all.”

“Honestly, I’d be more inclined to include that as evidence against it being Jon,” Martin said. 

“Okay,” Sasha said, interjecting before the discussion started anew. “We’re not going to come to a conclusion on this. I think we can all agree that, at the very least, we don’t have enough information to prove anything, and even if we did, we don’t have enough information to do anything about it, either.” Tim and Martin nodded. “This is distressing, but ultimately not helpful. So how about we table it for now, add it to the whiteboard, and revisit it if we find more evidence?”

“Alright,” Martin said.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Tim said. “I’d rather not think about it too much unless I have to.”

“I’m sorry my trip to Hill Top Road was so useless. I honestly don’t think it could have gone any worse.”

“It’s not your fault Prentiss was there,” Sasha said. “Besides, if you hadn’t gone there, we wouldn’t have known that there _wasn’t_ anything there.”

“If it makes you feel any better, my date with Basira was garbage too. You’re not the only failure in the room.”

Martin smiled at that. It was the first time he’d done so all day. 

“Now, I don’t know about you two,” Tim said, “But I think we’ve had enough serious discussion for today. What do you say we pour some wine and watch some movies?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Martin said. 

That evening, the three of them curled up on Sasha’s couch with slices of cake and plastic cups of wine, and marathoned the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ movies. Sasha grabbed some blankets from her room after the first movie, and they all huddled up underneath them. At one point, Tim got up to prepare tea, much to Martin’s indignation— but Tim wasn’t the one who’d been attacked by a worm monster and maybe encountered his dead boss, and therefore was still allowed to dote on others. As the night went on, the tension melted out of them and the fear dissipated, as they let themselves simply enjoy decent pirate movies together. 

But even as they talked over the energetic action sequences and laughed at the increasingly poor storylines, even as their faces broke into smiles and their shoulders relaxed, even as the night came to a quiet end when they fell asleep on top of each other during _On Stranger Tides_ _—_ Sasha could not completely push what Martin had heard to the side. She could not forget the thought of Jon, dead yet _still there,_ lurking in the dark corners of her mind. 

—

For a long time, Sasha had considered herself a skeptic. Even through her short stint at Artefact Storage, and during her much longer time as a researcher, and then for that final half year during which she was an Archival Assistant, she’d always maintained a sort of academic distance from her research, an understanding that it was odd but not explicitly paranormal. This was a pretense she dropped completely after the Institute. There was no denying that something supernatural was responsible, as mundane as much of the evidence they’d found so far was. To deny the supernatural’s involvement was to stick her head in the sand and deny reality, and if Sasha was going to get to the bottom of this mystery, that simply wouldn’t do. 

But she still tried to maintain some academic reservation. Much of their evidence— the lighter, the tunnels, the wrappers, the Lightless Flame— was circumstantial, and although she found some of it more plausible than the rest, she still approached things with a grain of salt. And even though thoughts of Jon’s shambling, bloody corpse kept her awake at night, they couldn’t draw any good conclusions about what Martin had heard. Sasha was reluctant to think that he was a ghost or a zombie or a voice stolen to fit a monster (although, if she had to pick, she'd guess it was a ghost). There was nothing tangible, nothing _real_ to prove it, and for what it was worth, Martin didn’t place too much credence on the idea either.

In a similar vein, after having listened to many of the tapes they found in the tunnels, Sasha wasn’t sure what to make of Gertrude Robinson. On one hand, she knew that the statements on tape were typically real, but on the other hand— it was difficult to believe. So many statements treated so seriously, so many strange tales that supposedly, apparently had actually happened. A part of her wanted to say that Gertrude was nuts, or that she’d organized the real statements with fake ones on purpose, or even that Sasha herself would have to had witnessed each statement to tell which ones were true and which ones weren’t. But Sasha had known Gertrude. She had been sharp, and calculating, and not even a little crazy, and if she had taken the statements seriously there had to be a reason why.

And then she’d done some digging. Her research for the Lightless Flame didn’t particularly lead anywhere, but the Serapeum… it had been, in a word, _interesting_ to discover that there had been an explosion which killed 17 people near where it was supposed to be located, shortly after Heller’s statement was taken. But Sasha had brushed it off as an unfortunate coincidence— until she’d found a statement about Gertrude bombing a Gnostic church. Now _that_ gave her pause.

Sasha didn’t often consider her own stake in this— in fact, she made a deliberate effort not to. But she wasn’t a robot. She missed all the people she’d known and friends she’d made at the Institute with a hollow ache. She had begun to like Jon, and while they weren't friends they were getting there, especially once her frustration at being passed over for a promotion had mellowed out and she’d seen through his surface level assholery. And Sasha had _cared_ about Gertrude Robinson.

Gertrude was secretive and stern, sure, but a _murderer?_ A _mass murderer?_ What the _fuck?_ What on earth was Sasha supposed to _do_ with that information? A woman she’d known for _years ,_ a woman she’d almost considered a mentor, a woman who’s rotting, festering corpse she’d discovered— that woman had apparently killed dozens, maybe hundreds of people. And the only thing that was maybe, possibly a consequence was her death. 

When Sasha discovered that Gertrude was a mass murderer, her blood boiled so hot and the lump in her throat grew so big that she didn't get a wink of sleep. Sasha didn't understand. Gertrude killed all those innocent people— she _chose_ to kill them, knowingly ended them. Why would Gertrude do that? How was it worth it destroy so many lives, cause so much senseless loss? What could _possibly_ justify that much carnage? “Rituals” and “Gods?”

About that— Sasha could accept supernatural mass death, and she could accept worm monsters, and maybe if more evidence presented itself she would accept ghosts, too— but fear gods? _Gods of fear?_ Absolutely not. And yet Gertrude spoke about them with such conviction, such confidence that they were real, and so did some of the people she spoke to; surely Gertrude wasn’t lying. 

But did Sasha trust her? Gertrude had never mentioned anything about fear gods or mass murder to Sasha in person, so maybe all these tapes really were secret senile ramblings. But no; Sasha had seen the news reports, and Gertrude had killed those people, so if she was telling the truth about that she was almost certainly telling the truth about fear gods, which was a possibility Sasha did not want to accept. 

Sasha felt like she was chasing specters. She had so many questions, not just about the investigation, but the world-reaching implications of their findings. About the supernatural itself. About Gertrude and Jon. Yet the archival assistants had uncovered more problems than solutions. Sasha needed _answers,_ real, concrete answers to the questions swirling in her head. But in order to get answers, she needed to find someone or something that actually had them, and unfortunately, that wasn't something that she could just _do._ People familiar with the supernatural didn't saunter up to you in public and announce themselves.

So when, on a sleepy Monday right before Christmas, a monster walked into the cafe where Sasha was working and ordered a latte, it was only natural for her burning curiosity to outweigh her panic.


	6. Revenants, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued: Sasha attends celebrations, thinks about ghosts, and asks the important questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Here is the next chapter, which is technically the second half of the previous chapter. Sorry it took longer than expected, I got tied up with college faster than I expected. On the bright side, this chapter got ~700 words longer when I was finishing it, so you get more to read!
> 
> As I've mentioned, I am in fact starting college, and idk when the next chapter after this is going up. I've proven that I'm bad at estimating those things, but I'll say that fate-willing it won't be more than a month. I don't want to keep you all waiting!
> 
> Thank you as always for the kind comments and kudos!! I read every single comment, and they all mean so much to me. I am continually flattered by how much yall like this. Anyways, hope you enjoy the chapter!

He seemed normal enough when he arrived— curly blond hair flowing free, dressed flamboyantly in purples and buttery yellows. Sure, she found him familiar, but the nagging recognition in the back of her mind was easy to ignore. One of her coworkers gave her his ostentatious order and she moved on. But when she finished his latte, she called his name— _“Michael”_ — and as he sauntered to the counter, by pure chance she noticed his reflection in the plastic of the cup she was holding. It was twisting and contorted, pulled thin like soft clay, and the fingers stretching from its spiraling arms reached all the way down to its knees in razor-sharp points. 

Sasha was so startled that she almost dropped the cup, but then Michael was at the counter, as normal as he’d been when he first walked in, and she handed him the drink without a word. At first, she thought she was seeing things, but when there was a lull in service she grabbed another cup and looked through the warped plastic— sure enough, she saw the same strange, twisted, knife-fingered monstrosity. It brought to mind a line from the most useless section of the Lensik statement that had stuck with her: “all the bones are in his hands.”

Her shift didn’t end for a few hours, so initially she tried to put it out of her mind. After all, maybe he was minding his own business, and just happened to stop at Sasha’s cafe. But as those hours ticked by, he did not leave— he simply sat there, taking precise, regimented sips of the latte she’d made him, not so much as looking in her direction. He was waiting for something. Probably her. 

After long consideration and an impolite amount of staring, she didn’t determine what he wanted with her or who he was, but she _did_ realize where she’d seen him: _Elias’ funeral._ He’d been one of those distant guests who avoided her and Tim and Martin, and who gaped at them with a strange, uncomfortable hunger. Setting aside the implication that all those guests had been _monsters—_ the revelation only solidified her suspicion that he was here for her. But why?

Evening sunlight began to shine through the cafe windows. Michael showed no sign of leaving as closing time drew near; then it came and went, and although every other customer had disappeared, he remained, the light creating a frizzy golden halo around his unmoving head. Somehow, neither of Sasha’s coworkers noticed, and when she circumspectly told them that she’d finish closing up they both departed without so much as glancing in the man’s direction— leaving the two of them alone. 

She debated ignoring him. She could _go,_ leave the cafe without speaking to him, return to her flat with nothing but an odd story to tell Tim and Martin. It would be exponentially wiser and safer than talking to him. But then again, he could pursue her. And more importantly: he might have information. He might have a _lead._ He might have answers to the myriad questions their investigation had raised. So really, when you considered that, she didn’t have any choice at all. 

So against her better judgement, Sasha took a deep breath and sat down across from Michael. Only then did he acknowledge her, nodding in greeting and looking at her as if he was expecting her to say something. She considered what to say to this maybe-monster, weighed each question that threatened to escape her, and decided to take a direct approach:

“What are you?”

She hadn’t taken Michael’s order. She hadn’t heard him ask for his coffee, she hadn’t heard him thank her for it, she hadn’t heard him say a word. So it startled her when the first noise out of his throat was an echoing, distorted laugh, both too quiet and too loud, with an inhuman quality that set her hairs on end. 

“What an odd question,” Michael mused, voice softer and without its unnerving reverberation. “I wonder if it can be answered? After all, how would a melody describe itself when asked? And does the answer matter so long as you can hear it play?”

All the anticipation that had been building up in Sasha crashed like a wave against a rocky shore. “Okay,” she said, annoyed. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to say— but she’d assumed he’d answer her questions if she asked them. It was the only reason she was there! “If you’re just going to talk in cheap riddles, I have better places to be.” 

Michael grinned. His smile had slightly too many teeth. “I’d apologize, but I can’t exactly help my nature,” he— no, _it_ said. 

"Your ‘nature.’”

“Everything has a nature. There’s nothing wrong with following it.”

“And following it entails… answering questions with metaphors?”

“A hand may open a door, but is that its _nature?_ Or is that one natural action of _many_ natural actions a hand may take?”

Sasha sighed. “Okay. Fine. What do you want?”

Michael sipped its latte. When it put the cup down Sasha saw that it was empty, with nothing but a ring of dried coffee on the bottom. “I have questions,” it said simply.

Sasha stared at it blankly. _Questions?_ For _her? Why?_

“What,” she said.

“It’s very Beholding of me, I know, but I suppose one mustn’t forget their roots.”

“I— _you_ want to ask _me_ questions.”

“Things have changed,” Michael said. “The Powers have shifted— and you purportedly have answers.”

“Uh…” Sasha wasn’t sure what it was talking about— if this was about the supernatural or the investigation, Michael surely knew more than her, right? She was nothing but a confused outsider fumbling in the dark. If it wanted information it could waste its time on her, but she wasn’t going to give it freely. She would not let this opportunity go to waste.

“Okay,” she said, “fine, I’ll help you— but _I_ have questions too. So if you want this conversation to continue, you’ll answer them.”

Michael raised its eyebrows, before its face broke out in a smile and it began laughing. It was just as unnerving as it had been the first time, and Sasha had to resist the urge to flinch. “Now why would I do that?” it eventually said.

“Because if you don’t, I’m leaving.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Michael said very casually.

A shiver went down Sasha’s spine. “What, are you going to eat me if I don’t feel like talking to you?” Michael regarded her silently, its eyes alight with the same hunger that had been in them at Elias’ funeral. “You— you can’t exactly ask me questions while digesting me,” she stammered.

“Clearly, you aren’t familiar with my stomach.” It grinned. “Of course, you can get to know it if you’d rather not chat.” The grin widened. “That scares you, doesn’t it?”

It did. It _really_ did. If the only outcomes of this encounter were interrogation and the grave, she regretted paying Michael any mind. She’d foolishly overestimated the civility of monsters. …But then she recalled her last encounter with the supernatural: Peter Lukas. He, too, had threatened her— and where had that gotten him? The Beholding brought him to his knees. And Prentiss was also smote by… something. (Maybe the Beholding was using Jon’s voice to communicate with them, and it had killed Jane Prentiss? She’d have to bounce the idea off Tim.) Perhaps this encounter would end the same way… and perhaps she could use that fact to her advantage.

“Not really, no,” she tried to drawl.

“Oh? And why would that be?” Michael was unconvinced. 

“Because if you try to hurt me, the thing that protects me from monsters like you won’t be happy.”

Michael’s eyes flashed. “I see,” it said. “I am aware that if I kill you I’m going to get an eyeful— but I don’t like to follow directions.”

Sasha set her jaw and stood up. Her chair scraped loudly against the wooden floor. “Answer my questions, or I’m gone.”

It gazed at Sasha as if seeing her for the first time. Its grin dropped. “Your willingness to risk your life in the name of your curiosity is almost impressive.” It sighed. “Sit back down. I’ll… _‘_ _try my best,’_ to answer whatever questions you have.”

She sat, swallowing down her adrenaline and her disbelief at her own confidence. “Okay,” she said. There was so much she wanted to know that she wasn’t sure where to begin— so she started at the beginning. “Who killed everyone at the Magnus Institute?”

Michael burst into laughter. Sasha sat there awkwardly, unsure what to do with its reaction. Then, through its dissonant giggles, it said, _“I don’t know.”_

Disappointment sank in Sasha’s stomach. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was,” it chuckled. “Normally, if such a powerful stronghold was destroyed so suddenly, I would at least be able to _guess_ who was behind it— but this is not normal. Actually, I was hoping _you_ knew who’s responsible.”

“Seriously? I don’t know either—”

“But you have been looking into it,” it prodded. “Surely you have guesses.”

Well, Sasha had agreed to answer its questions. “I mean, we don’t have much… but our two main suspects are a mysterious figure living in tunnels under the Institute, and this cult called the Lightless Flame—”

At that, Michael cracked up again. “The Lightless Flame _wishes_ they were responsible for this.” it said between its cackles. “Do you have any idea how pissed they are that someone took down the Archives before them?

“I do now?”

“You should have seen their faces.” It wiped a tear from its eye. “Anyways. You were saying about these tunnels?”

“Right. So there are tunnels under the Magnus Institute, and we found the body of Gertrude Robinson— she was the previous Head Archivist—”

“I know who Gertrude Robinson is,” Michael said, sitting forward in its seat. “Do you know who had the honor of killing her?” 

“Uh, no. But we think it was the same thing that killed Jon— Jonathan Sims, who replaced her as Head Archivist. And we think it’s probably living in the tunnels.” She paused, taking in the fascination on Michael’s face. “... you wouldn’t happen to know what’s down there, would you?”

“Dirt. Stale air. More corpses, perhaps.”

“That’s all?”

Michael shrugged. “They’re tunnels. What else do _you_ think is in them?” When Sasha didn’t respond, it spoke again. “As entertaining as your ignorance is, I hoped that you had discovered more. I’m a little disappointed, honestly, especially considering your history with the Beholding.”

“Okay, yeah, next question: what do you mean by that? What is the Beholding?”

“You don’t know?”

“No I don’t.”

“Oh, you are a riot!” it chuckled. “It was your God.”

“I—” Sasha’s brain short-circuited. “What?”

“It was your God, just as it was Magnus’ God.”

Her God… there was only one thing it could be talking about. “...You mean my _Fear_ God.”

“They _are_ sometimes called that. Bravo! You figured something out!”

Sasha pressed forward. “What are they?”

Michael shook its head. “As much as I’d like to enlighten you, I’d rather preserve your puzzlement. Besides, it’s my turn to ask the questions, and I must know: how did you sever yourself from the Beholding?”

She recalled her conversation with Peter Lukas— he had asked the exact same thing. “I still have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. 

“Hmm. If it helps, I… suppose I can try to put it into simpler terms: How did you quit the Magnus Institute?”

Now _that_ caught Sasha off guard. “I… I didn’t? Lukas all but fired me after everyone died.” She had no clue how quitting the Institute was connected to severing yourself from a Fear God.

“Really now?”

“Yes… why is that surprising to you?”

It sipped its empty latte. “Because the Beholding is no longer your God,” it said, before adding, “Though I must admit, its influence has rubbed off on you.”

“And what exactly do you mean by that?”

Michael gave her a Look, and gestured at her silently.

“What?”

“Never mind,” it said. “Ask your next question, I suppose. _Embrace the Eye.”_

Ignoring the odd turn of phrase, Sasha considered what else she wanted to know. She could ask more about the Fear Gods, but Michael hadn’t been forthcoming on the subject. So instead she asked another question that had been bothering her for some time.

Sasha squared her shoulders and asked, “Are ghosts real?”

Michael snorted into its cup.

“Okay, well, maybe not just ghosts, but any sort of undead person. A person who’s died but… not really, I guess.”

_“That’s_ your question?”

“Yes it is. What about it?”

Michael shook its head in amusement, before saying, “Not in the traditional sense. Not on their own. There are those who live after they are killed, of course, but that’s not a disease— it’s a symptom.”

“A symptom of…”

“Becoming.” A grin broke out on its face, and although it still had too many teeth it was much friendlier than the previous ones. “I like you! You’re fun. And I find your confusion deeply amusing.”

“Thanks?” Sasha said.

“It’s a sincere compliment— I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this conversation.” Michael reached out and gently took her hands. Its palms were too heavy, and although its hands looked normal, they felt like a wet leather bag that was stuffed with sharp stones. She tried not to shiver at what was surely meant to be a gesture of friendship. “I’m glad I didn’t eat you,” it concluded.

“Me too,” she said.

Michael nodded and pulled back its hands; Sasha was quietly relieved. “Now on an entirely different note,” it said, “you don’t happen to know what killed Jane Prentiss, do you?”

“Uh— the ECDC said it was suffocation? I think?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Ah.” Sasha was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know. Something that talks, and… apparently, it… sounded a little like— like, uh, like Jonathan Sims— but that’s not substantiated.”

“The Archivist?”

“Well, Head Archivist. _Maybe.”_

“Huh,” Michael said, taking a sip from its cup.

“You…how did you know about Prentiss?”

“How do I know about _you?”_ it asked. It had relaxed into its chair, and was blinking at her like a cat in the midday sun. “There are many things I know that you couldn’t begin to understand. Prentiss was a problem I had intended to exterminate myself. But I am not the only one who’d like to know what happened at the Magnus Archives. The flesh-hive always was rather rash, and it seems that its snooping didn't turn out well."

“So she was what, your rival?”

“It was my enemy. I did not want it to _win._ I didn’t want the Archives to win, either. So I’m not exactly grieving either of their deaths… they’re simply unexpected. They change things. Especially with the Unknowing… ” Michael trailed off. “But that doesn't concern you.”

“What's the—"

"I don't feel like telling you." When Sasha stared at Michael, it sighed. "Suffice to say, recent events have forced me to... adapt."

"... I can understand that."

"Can you?"

"Well... I lost my job. A lot of my friends. Most of my life, really. Not very cosmic, but... it's something. Like a rug was pulled out from under me."

Michael hummed. "Yes. I suppose the Archives pulled the rug out from under all of us." It was quiet for a moment, before it eventually asked, “Why are you here?”

“What?”

“You could have ignored me, shunned me, gotten up and left.”

“Because I wanted to ask you questions?”

“More than you wanted to keep your mortal existence? I could have killed you. I still can,” it added with a wry smile. “Was this conversation truly so important?”

Sasha thought about it for a long moment. “I think,” she said, “that if I know why the Institute died, I can move on. I can stop wondering.”

“Well,” Michael said, “I don’t know what’s actually responsible, but… I _can_ guess a motive.”

Sasha perked up. “Seriously? What is it?”

“They didn’t want the Archives to _win.”_

“To win… win at what?”

Michael shook its head. “Telling you spoils the fun, doesn’t it?”

She deflated like a balloon. “For you, I guess.” She considered what winning could mean. Michael hadn’t wanted the Archives or Prentiss to “win,” and maybe it wasn’t alone in that. But win at what? 

An idea crossed her mind: Gertrude Robinson. She had dedicated her life to fighting Fear Gods, to stopping Rituals. Maybe it was all for the sake of the Beholding. Maybe she didn’t want her enemies to win. Maybe _she_ wanted to win, with her own ritual and her own God. 

“Did it have anything to do with Gertrude?”

Michael froze. “What?”

“We found tapes with her body. And I think— she killed a lot of people, didn’t she? In order to stop the, uh, the Fear Gods. And she was winning, wasn’t she?”

Any warmth that had arisen in Michael’s expression vanished. Night had fallen without Sasha's notice, and the dim cafe light cast Michael's face in deep shadow. “Gertrude Robinson was willing to do whatever was necessary for the ‘greater good,’ regardless of collateral damage. Yes, she killed many people in the hope of stopping the Dread Powers, and yes, it worked. But she did not _win._ She didn’t want _anyone_ to win, including herself. And no one was safe from her.” It took a bitter sip from its empty cup. “Not even her own assistants.”

Sasha opened her mouth to reply, but Michael stood up and brushed itself off. “Well, I have certainly enjoyed our chat. I do hope you’ll be willing to update me if you find anything interesting. If you want to speak again, feel free to call. Goodbye.” With that, it swept out of the cafe; it opened the door and stepped through, but did not come out on the other side. 

—

Sasha blinked, and suddenly it was Christmas. 

It was a given that the archival assistants spent the holiday together. At no point was the fact up for debate. So, when the morning came, they gathered at Tim’s house, put on silly Christmas tunes, and did nothing productive whatsoever all day. 

There was an intentional, cultivated levity in the air, a warm feeling of joy and home that wrapped around Sasha like a woolen blanket. All of them were dressed for maximum coziness; Martin wore a What The Ghost sweatshirt which Sasha was more than a little jealous of, Tim had an ugly Christmas jumper covered in pine trees and snowmen, and Sasha’s rather boring grey jumper was accentuated by her reindeer antler headband. From the moment they stepped into Tim’s small, comfy living room and locked eyes with one another, the cheerful vibes were unavoidable. It was almost disgustingly wholesome.

The first order of business was decorating the shabby Christmas tree Tim had clearly procured at the last minute. They didn’t have many ornaments, but they still spent a pleasant hour doing their best to make the tree beautiful. Sasha covered drinks, much to Martin’s chagrin, using her newfound skills as a barista to make their hot chocolate slightly better than average. Tim idly sang along to the Christmas songs as he decorated, and Martin kept rearranging the ornaments to make sure each one was in the perfect spot.

Once the tree was decorated and well-loved, there was an attempt to make shortbread cookies. They may or may not have burnt them (she supposed it was their fault for trusting Tim to pull them out of the oven), but they still tasted delicious, rich and sweet and shaped like snowflakes, even if they were also rock hard and charcoal black on the bottom. The chicken tikka they ordered for dinner, on the other hand, was amazing, and the relaxed discussion they had over it about birds was even better.

Finally, they exchanged gifts. Martin kicked things off, giving Tim a luxurious spa kit with fancy soaps and oils. In return, Tim gave Martin a purple knit hat with cat ears sewn on, as well as self-defense spray, which Sasha wasn’t entirely sure was legal. Sasha also received self-defense spray from Tim, in addition to a mug with bee facts on it. From Martin, she got two pendants, one Saturn-themed and the other spider-themed— she appreciated the multiple bug items. Bugs were neat. She told Tim and Martin as much when she thanked them profusely for the thoughtful gifts.

Sasha also had gifts to give, and she was rather happy with her picks. To Martin, she gave a tin of fine earl grey lavender tea, and to Tim, an engraved pocket knife that said “Fuck Them Up.” Both presents received glowing reviews, and Sasha’s heart burst with joy.

By the end of the night they all fell asleep in Tim’s living room in the warm glow of the Christmas tree’s lights, sprawled out on the hardwood floors, wrapped in quilts and fuzzy jumpers. It was nice. It was simple. Frankly, it was one of the best Christmases Sasha had ever had, if only for what it represented: that they had each other. For a moment, there was nothing hanging over them. For one singular moment, there was no fear. 

The following Monday was a national holiday, and none of them had work. So naturally, they went back to the Archives. 

After her conversation with Michael, Sasha had much to think about. First and foremost: Fear Gods were real, and the Beholding was one of them (if it was truly the thing protecting them, did it make the archival assistants Fear Saints? The question kept Sasha awake at night at least once). She’d shared what she remembered with Tim and Martin, and none of them knew what to do about it— what does a person do when they learn that evil gods exist? What _can_ a person do? So far, all they’d done was try not to worry about it too much. 

The idea that the massacre had been a single part of some cosmic monster competition had been… a lot, but it gave them a _motive._ Michael could have been wrong, but it fit with what she already knew about Fear Gods and Rituals and all the bullshit that entailed, which admittedly wasn’t much. Also of note was the creeping realization that they were not the only ones who wanted to know what had happened to the Institute; both Michael and Peter Lukas had asked them questions about it, and Michael had implied that Prentiss was seeking answers too… Sasha would have assumed that the supernatural would know the cause of the supernatural mystery, but apparently that was not the case. 

Most pressingly, Michael had all but confirmed that the Cult of the Lightless Flame probably wasn’t responsible, and furthermore, that the tunnels had _potential._ It wasn’t a strong positive confirmation, but it wasn’t a denial, either, and she would take what she could get. 

But they would have returned to the tunnels even if Michael had told them not to. It would be silly of them _not_ to hunt down the person that was responsible for all this when they knew where he lived. There was something down there, and if it was the culprit, they'd cut through the bullshit and uncover every single mystery they wanted to solve. Besides: until Sasha hacked into a police database or Tim seduced a cop, it was their best bet. Sasha didn’t know where else to look for more evidence, and they had to do something with their day off. 

That didn’t make the decision to go back into the tunnels any less stupid. Martin was terrified of returning, and Tim was concerningly excited. It was a recipe for disaster, and Sasha knew it. She spent the night before their visit tossing and turning, anxious about what could happen. She didn’t want anyone to get hurt. But the investigation was more important, so they would have to deal. 

They arrived at the Institute shortly after sunrise. The building’s facade was more neglected than it had been last time they’d visited, the windows dark and dusty, the marble steps smothered in a layer of untouched snow they were careful not to slip on as they marched into the tomb. But on the inside, it was exactly the same: just as stale, empty, and _dead_ _._ Sasha was once again struck with how hollow and spiritless the place was— it was more than an abandoned building. There was an _absence_ to it. It had lost something intangible and vital that Sasha only knew to miss now that it was gone. 

The three of them had come prepared this time. They had torches, chalk with which to make actual path markers, and, most importantly, makeshift weaponry; Tim had found an axe somewhere, Martin had a kitchen knife, and Sasha had a cricket bat, in addition to all of their self defense-related Christmas presents. Sasha had also brought rope and handcuffs, just in case. She doubted that any of it would help against a crazed gunman, but it made her feel better. 

They traveled down the same familiar stairwell, and entered the dark, desolate Archives. All they were here to do was go into the tunnels, so they made a beeline straight to the trapdoor, barely glancing at the Archives’ shelves, which somehow seemed even more disheveled than last time. 

Sasha very pointedly did not look at the door to Jon’s office. During their last visit, going in had been a uniquely unpleasant experience. The room had been exactly as Sasha remembered it, as it had always been during Jon’s tenure, down to the last loose paper and ajar drawer— except, of course, for the blood. _That_ was different.

Once they arrived at the open trapdoor, they took a moment to stare into the ink black darkness, down those steep, precarious steps. 

“Well,” said Sasha, “this is it.”

“Yep, sure is,” said Tim. 

“What do you think we’ll find?” Sasha asked.

“A murderer.”

“Well, yeah. But… what do you think they’re like?”

“I don’t really care, as long as we find them.”

“...Why do you ask?” Martin said.

“I don’t know,” said Sasha. “It’s been on my mind, I guess. Whatever it is, there’s a decent change it’s a monster, like Prentiss, or Michael.”

“Maybe it’s their lovechild,” Tim quipped.

“Don’t even joke,” said Martin.

“It’s probably not Prentiss and Michael's lovechild, but… what do we do if it _is_ a monster? Talk to it? Kill it? But at the same time… what do we do if it’s _not?_ What if the person responsible for killing everyone is just that— a person? Isn’t that almost worse?”

“I guess we’d still talk to them,” said Martin. “Try and understand why they did it. At least you can _understand_ a person.”

“And we don’t necessarily have to take killing off the table,” said Tim. Sasha and Martin looked at him, and he threw his hands in the air. “Not _necessarily.”_

“If you’re determined to commit murder, at least do it when I’m not in the room,” Martin said.

“And at least let us question them first,” Sasha added, doing her best to conceal the concern in her voice.

“Yeah, okay, fair enough,” Tim said. He looked back down at the maw they stood over. “Well, we can’t wait all day: who wants to go in first?”

“Not me,” Martin said.

“Your loss,” said Tim, before climbing down the stairs.

Sasha shot a look at Martin, who was visibly pale. “Are you good to go?” she asked.

“No.” Martin sighed. “Still going to go down there, though. God, why do I do this to myself,” he mumbled, before taking a deep breath and descending down the stairs himself.

Sasha watched him disappear into the darkness. She swallowed down her lingering fear, turned on her torch, and carefully stepped into the black tunnels, as prepared as she could be to face whatever specters might lurk there. 

—

Despite their best efforts, they still got lost. 

Sasha shouldn’t have been surprised. The tunnels _were_ an incomprehensible Smirke creation. On the bright side, it wasn’t a huge issue. It obviously wasn’t good, but they weren’t trying to explore the tunnels. They weren’t trying to map them. They didn’t even need to know where they were going.

They were hunting. 

So far it was uneventful.

At this point, it had been some time, and they had yet to find anything. They had yet to even stumble on the Mint Imperials they’d discovered last time. The tunnels twisted and turned in irrational ways. They left chalk markers, but that didn’t help when they never used them. Instead, they curved down stone tunnels and stairs, trekking deeper and deeper, not sure where they were or what they would encounter.

Despite Sasha's best efforts, the tunnels were getting to her. The walls pressed in on her, the thick, mildewy air suffocated her, the contorted passageways evaded understanding. And she couldn’t see— was her torch supposed to be that dim? Every shadow was a threat, every sound a gunshot. She was tense, jumpier and more stressed than usual. Martin also radiated anxiety, but Tim was deathly focused, silent, like a wolf on the prowl, axe in hand prepared to strike. 

Sasha wanted something to happen. They had been at this for hours, and they needed _progress._ If the tunnels didn’t work out, what would they have left? So she swallowed down her fear and focused on the task at hand; she had a purpose here, and it made her suffering worth it. 

But that didn’t make the experience any nicer. Or faster.

“How much longer do you think we’re going to be down here?” Martin asked after the seventh turn into a new and completely foreign corridor, hushed voice cutting through the silence.

“Until we find our killer,” Sasha replied.

“... And what if we don’t?”

“I mean, obviously if we don’t find him before the day ends we’re going to leave.”

“Well, yeah, okay,” Martin said, voice tense. “I just… kinda think we should turn back soon?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s only noon-ish? We still have time.”

“I guess.” Martin paused, and their footsteps filled the silence. “You know, underwater divers only use a third of their oxygen to explore, so they have two thirds to get back in case they get lost. Maybe we should be doing the same thing with our time?”

“We’ve been marking our way, it’s fine. We’re not going to get lost,” Sasha tried to reassure him.

“I think we could still get lost.”

“These tunnels are weird, but it’s not as if they _literally change around us.”_

“What if they do though? It’s possible.”

Sasha sighed. “Look, just don’t worry about it, okay? I’m sure this will be fine.” She was not sure, but she wasn’t going to tell Martin that. 

“I don’t know, Sasha. People have died in the Paris Catacombs after one wrong turn, and those are tunnels people know about! If we get lost, we’ll be trapped here, forever, completely alone—” 

“Shh,” Tim said as he suddenly froze.

Martin huffed, “Tim, what—”

_“Shhh.”_ Tim’s hand was stretched out as if to stop them, and his head was turned to listen down the tunnel. “Do you hear that?”

Sasha heard nothing. She wanted to object, but before she could, suddenly, it was there— a soft, distant tapping noise, like dress shoes on stone, echoing from somewhere in the tunnels. 

“Fuck,” she whispered. Tim nodded.

“Okay uh, uh— what’s the plan?” Martin asked, voice hushed.

“First, we wait,” Tim said. He had crouched down, and was listening intently at the noise. 

Sasha and Martin squatted next to him, went silent, and listened. The tapping, which had initially been faint, gradually grew closer. It was footsteps, Sasha was sure— slow, but steady, and headed in their general direction. She began to stand up to seek out their source, but Tim stopped her.

_“Wait,”_ he said. 

So they waited. They turned out their lights and crouched in the tunnel, muscles coiled, waiting for the moment to act. Without their torches, everything was pitch black— and now Sasha wished they’d relied on their night vision from the start— but their ears were sharp, focused and intent on the only sound in their universe. Sasha’s heart pounded in her throat, her blood raced through her veins, and she focused on taking deep, silent breaths as she laid in wait. This was it! There was something there, and she was terrified and desperate to know what. This might be the end of their investigation, the end of their search for answers, their search for justice. She wasn’t ready. The sheer magnitude of it overwhelmed her. 

Slowly, the footsteps grew closer, and closer, and closer. They were nearby, but not heading towards the assistants, perhaps following a path that crossed theirs. Sasha held her breath, and prepared to spring into action. She felt her pockets to make sure she still had her rope, hand cuffs, and self defense spray, and wrapped both hands around her cricket bat with a white knuckled grip. 

But before she was ready there was movement, a flash in her vision, and only after it was already too late did she realize that it was _Tim,_ leaping up and into the darkness, into the void, propelling himself directly towards danger without warning, and then he was gone. She jumped to her feet and ran after him, not caring how loud she was because god fucking dammit she’d been afraid of this, this was exactly what she’d been _worried_ he’d _do,_ and there was a sickening squelch from within the shadows and a scream of agony, and all the adrenaline in her blood pushed her muscles forward on instinct alone. She turned a corner after what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than seconds, and there were sounds of struggle, of flesh striking flesh striking stone, and all she thought was _Tim Tim Tim Tim Tim,_ all triumph banished from her heart. But she didn’t know what was happening. The tunnels were dark. All she had was noise. 

She didn’t have to think about the decision. She had to _know._ Gripped with panic, Sasha fumbled for her torch, turned it on, and beheld the sight before her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the two cliffhangers... when I outlined this it wasn't like this lol.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Leave a kudos or a comment if you wish!


	7. Deep-Seated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim encounters bastards and participates in interrogations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Apologies for the month wait, I've been doing College Things, but now this is here! Hopefully it makes up for the wait, considering that it's really long and also, in my personal opinion, very exciting. I don't have much to add here, except to say that I hope you enjoy the chapter!! And when you finish, tell me what you think!

His feet pounded against stone as blood pounded in his ears as his heart pounded in his chest as he charged forward, propelled by some nameless hungry instinct that flowed through his veins and sang under his skin. His pursuit was silent, his steps quick and certain, like a shadow in the darkness. As he drew close, he heard his prey pause, hesitate— but it was too late. Tim pounced.

The figure shouted with alarm as Tim swung his axe with both arms. He hit air and stumbled, thrown off balance. The figure pulled something thin and rectangular from a pocket and Tim struck again; the axe dug into the flesh near their wrist, then scraped down the length of their forearm with a wet squelch as they let out a gut-wrenching scream and the object flew from their hand. The figure staggered, and Tim dropped the axe and lunged, grabbing them by the shoulders and shoving them backwards into the tunnel wall with a thud. 

Holding them in place by the neck, Tim unleashed his pent-up hatred onto the figure. The first punch elicited a grunt of pain, and the figure’s nose gave under the second with a loud and satisfying crunch. And then Tim was lost in a blur of delicious, _righteous_ violence. 

He would have his revenge. For everyone at the Institute. For Jon. For Danny. And he would _enjoy it._

A light blinded Tim, and somewhere distant, a voice called out.

Tim did not stop.

“Tim!”

Tim did not stop.

 _“TIM!”_ Sasha shouted.

Her voice broke whatever spell had come over him, and he paused, fist raised. The man below him looked more like a vagrant than a murderer; he was old, short, with a shitty beard and watery blue eyes bright with fear. His face was covered in blood, his nose crushed. As much as the sight made some dark pleasure curl in Tim’s stomach, and as much as his instincts screamed to _keep going_ — Sasha and Martin wouldn’t want him to. And some quiet, distant part of him was asking why he was hungry to assault a defenseless old man

“Right.” Some of the fight left Tim. All he saw of Sasha was her torch light, but he could imagine the horrified expression on her face. He swallowed. “He dropped something on the ground.”

“Got it.” Sasha stepped further into the tunnel, searching for the object.

“I’m sorry—” the man gasped.

Tim pressed his hand into the man’s collarbone, and he let out a choked wheeze. “Be quiet,” Tim ordered. With his free hand, he withdrew the Fuck Them Up knife from his pocket and held it to the man’s throat. The man eyed it warily, and his fear made Tim’s blood pulse quicker. “Now, you’re going to answer our questions. Starting with who the fuck you are.”

The man’s expression turned to confusion, and then something almost hopeful. “You don’t know who—”

“Oh my god,” Sasha said. “This is a Leitner.”

“What?” Tim glanced at Sasha’s shape in the dark. She was holding what the man had dropped.

“Shit,” said the man. 

“It’s a booklet— it’s a Leitner. Called ‘ _A Disappearance.’”_

“Motherfucker,” hissed Tim.

“Sasha? Tim?” Martin’s voice echoed through the tunnels. 

“Martin, we’re here!” Sasha shouted. “Tim found the guy who’s been living down here!”

“Of _course_ you’re the kind of bastard that carries around a Leitner,” Tim said in disgust. The man opened and closed his mouth as if trying to form words.

Footsteps. Martin emerged from the turn, visible only by his torchlight. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed. “That him, then? He did it?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Sasha said.

“Tell us who you are,” commanded Tim.

“I’m J— uh, I’m— I’m—” He looked around desperately. “My name is… it’s Johann!” he obviously lied.

“Try again.”

“But— but that’s—”

Tim pressed the knife closer. “Try. _Again.”_

“Okay, fine— I’m— I’m Jurgen Leitner!” 

“Bull _shit!”_ Sasha said.

“You’re kidding,” Martin said.

“Do you really expect me to believe that you’re _Jurgen Leitner?”_ Tim said.

“You asked for the truth—”

The man gasped as Tim pushed the knife even closer, drawing a trickle of blood. “I did. And you told me that you’re _Jurgen Fucking Leitner,_ a pseudo-celebrity who’s been dead for _two decades.”_

“Wait, but—” the man wheezed. “If— if you don’t think I’m Jurgen Leitner— why are you _here?”_

“You know what you did.”

“...Uh, does he?” Martin asked.

“Humor me—” the man rasped.

“Did you kill everyone who worked at the Magnus Institute?” Sasha demanded.

“What? Why would— but that means—” Tim couldn’t decipher the wondrous expression that passed over the man’s face. It was like he’d been told unicorns existed, or that world peace had been achieved. “The Institute’s gone?” he breathed.

Tim paused, and his grip on his knife weakened. It was far from the reaction he’d been expecting. “Yes.”

“You didn’t know.” said Sasha. It wasn’t a question.

“Elias, too?”

“Well, we did say ‘everyone,’” Martin said.

The man stared off into the middle distance. It was like he’d lost years off his life in one instant. “Oh my God, that’s—”

 _“What?”_ Tim demanded.

“It’s— incredible, it’s—” The man looked Tim in the eyes, forgetting for a moment that Tim was actively threatening him with a knife. “How did it happen? Who killed Jonah?”

Tim was overcome with the sudden urge to slit the man’s throat open right then and there and watch the life drain out of him, simply for the sheer joy on his face— but he didn’t want that at all. Because that wasn’t the expression of a guilty man. And he couldn’t do that to Sasha and Martin. But he _wanted_ to. But he _didn’t._ Stomach roiling and blood singing, the sheer wrongness of it all paralyzed him. 

Sasha said, “Well, _you,_ but what do you mean by ‘who killed—’”

Martin said, “Uh, you? We thought? But I don’t—”

The man said, “Why— no, no, I didn’t—” 

“So you’re saying you _didn’t_ kill everyone?” Tim interjected, voice taut. “You didn’t murder Jon? Or Gertrude?”

The man’s face scrunched with bafflement. “What? No, of— of course not— _Elias_ killed Gertrude.”

Tim lowered his knife in shock. “What.”

That was a _radical_ claim to make, and if the man was right… if Elias had killed Gertrude… what the fuck? Did that mean… had Elias killed Jon? Holy fuck, had _Elias killed Jon?_ Had Elias tried to burn down the Archives? He’d been in them when he… had Elias murdered everyone? Had someone murdered him and everyone else? Was that the answer they’d been searching for?”

“I’m sorry, _Elias killed Gertrude?”_ Martin said. 

“You’re sure?” Sasha asked. The man hesitated, before nodding. Sasha was quiet for a moment, contemplating something, before she sighed. “Tim, get off him.”

His blood temperature spiked. Tim wanted to protest— to say that the man might be dangerous, or even guilty, that he might get away— but Sasha was close enough now that he saw her serious expression, the way her brows were furrowed that spoke to the gravity of the situation as much as it did her concern. Tim looked at Martin, at the clear anxiety across his face. They both were already acutely aware of what he had yet to internalize: his prey was nothing but a pathetic, _innocent_ old man. 

He stepped back. The blood went quiet.

The man leaned against the cave wall, cradling his wounded arm against his chest with a white-knuckle grip. He shrank away like a caged animal trying to appear as small as possible. The three of them surrounded him, and their torch lights pinned him in place.

“Who are you, really?” Sasha asked.

“I already told you,” he rasped, his eyes pointed at the ground in shame. 

_No._ He didn’t mean— 

“You’re actually _Jurgen Leitner?_ Are you serious now?” Martin said. 

“Can you prove it?” Sasha asked.

The man shrugged, then shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Okay, sure, fine, you’re Jurgen Leitner,” Tim said, although he didn’t entirely believe it. But the man’s dedication was convincing; who in their right mind would claim to be _Jurgen Leitner_ and then _double down?_ “You said Elias Bouchard killed Gertrude.”

The man— _Leitner_ — nodded. “Yes, he— he discovered our plan to—” he coughed suddenly— “to destroy the Archives.”

An uncomfortable silence fell. 

“That doesn’t make you look particularly innocent,” Tim tried to say calmly. 

“I—” Sasha cut off, at a loss. _“Why?_ Why did Gertrude want to do that?”

“Gertrude— what do you know about the Powers?”

“... You mean the Fear Gods.”

“Yes. She— her life’s work was stopping the Powers from—” he coughed. “— from accruing power— from completing their rituals. And that included her own God. Elias is— _was_ a servant of the— of the Eye. Of It-Knows-You. Stopping him meant stopping It. The Archives were his stronghold, and their destruction would have been a— a crushing blow.”

“The Eye…” Sasha trailed off, pensive. “That’s the Beholding, isn’t it?” 

Leitner nodded weakly.

“Okay,” Martin said, “Elias killed Gertrude, because he was… a follower of the Eye. The Beholding. A fear god.” He was quiet for a moment, before taking a breath. “Oh shit. Was our boss evil?”

“Yeah, uh, _please_ tell us more about our evil boss.” Tim said.

“He was trying to complete some ritual to— bring the Eye into the world. His very own apocalypse. The Archives— _especially_ their Archivist— were an _essential_ part of that Ritual, and the entire Institute— it was an extension of him— and if—” Another cough wracked Leitner’s body, as if the universe was forcing him to pause for dramatic effect. “—if he was killed, all its employees would also die—”

It only took a fraction of a second for it to click. For that elusive, mystifying puzzle piece which had so deftly evaded all comprehension to fall neatly into place. Now, Tim saw with crystal clarity an answer to the central and arcane question of _how:_

If Elias Bouchard died, so would every single employee of the Magnus Institute. 

_Oh._

There it was. A simple, logical explanation. 

Tim stared at Leitner, mouth hanging open in shock. He was suddenly _very_ glad he had not murdered the man. Because even if Leitner proved to be full of shit— this was an _answer._ They had been hunting for answers for two months— and now they _had one._

“Oh my god,” Martin gasped. “Oh fuck.”

“Someone killed Elias,” Sasha said. “Someone killed Elias, and everyone died.”

“Er— yes, presumably.”

Something occurred to Tim. “Wait, the pictures— Elias— he didn’t _look_ very murdered—”

“Jonah Magnus.” Leitner said. 

“Jonah Magnus?”

“Elias was Jonah Magnus. His body—” 

“UH?” Martin said.

“What?” Tim said.

“You mean the _founder of the Institute?”_ Sasha said with no small amount of skepticism. 

“Yes, that Jonah Magnus. Magnus removed his eyes and used them to— to possess people. His real body resides in the tunnels. If— if they didn’t kill _Elias_ , they must have killed _Jonah.”_

Sasha crossed her arms. “Look _,_ I appreciate how forthcoming you’ve been, but you’re really stretching your credibility here—” 

“Well, we can figure out if he’s lying pretty easily, right?” Tim said. “We just find Magnus.” 

Leitner tried to straighten himself, although the end result was still rather contorted. “I know where Magnus lies. If I… take you there, and answer your questions— will you leave me in peace?” 

Sasha and Martin nodded. Tim hesitated, then nodded as well.

“Lead the way,” Sasha said.

Leitner shambled ahead of them— and it really was a shamble, Tim had done a number on him. All the way, Sasha asked him questions about fear gods and rituals, and even himself— although it wasn’t strictly relevant to their investigation, Tim was also curious what the hell Jurgen Leitner was doing in tunnels under the Institute— and Leitner answered them to his best ability, although his answers were slow and roundabout and difficult to discern, not helped by the fact that he was navigating the tunnels and just had the shit kicked out of him. It was still informative, listening to him talk about Entities of Fear and armageddon-inducing rituals. 

After half a dozen twists and turns, the tunnels at last opened into a wide, derelict space. Their torches shone like spotlights through the dusty air, illuminating the countless dilapidated cells which lined the walls and faced inwards towards an ominous, monolithic tower, so tall it scraped the cavern ceiling.

“What is this place?” Sasha asked.

“It’s the Millbank Prison Panopticon.” Tim gazed around in awe. “Designed by Jeremy Bentham, completed in 1821 by Robert Smirke. Every prisoner could be seen from the watchtower, but never knew when they were being watched— creating conformity through fear. I can’t believe it’s down here.”

“Jonah tried to use it as the center of a Ritual,” Leitner wheezed. “One that would bring the Eye into this world. It failed, but— it left him with omniscience, clairvoyance. And it tied his consciousness to his eyes. He’s up there.” With a shaky hand, Leitner pointed to the top of the tower.

In true Smirke fashion, the tower stairs were winding and uneven, made more precarious with age. Leitner had to stop regularly as they climbed, cradling his arm to his chest, grunting with the effort it took to stay upright. But eventually, they reached the top, and their torches converged on a shape— and any lingering doubts about Leitner’s credibility were immediately quashed when Tim realized that it was a corpse. 

He sat in his chair like a king. He was dressed like a Victorian aristocrat, hair coiffed, clothes pressed. His face was upturned triumphantly, and there were two black, fathomless holes in place of his eyes. The only thing about him that wasn’t petrified with age was the blood staining the front of his shirt, which had trickled down from the numerous gunshot wounds marring his clean-cut chest.

Tim was getting tired of bodies sitting in chairs filled with bullet holes. 

“There he is,” Leitner said.

Gertrude’s corpse was musty and putrid. Jon’s was bloody and horrifically fresh. But Jonah Magnus? There was something almost artistic about his remains. Something elegant. Something right. 

“Fuck, _”_ Tim said.

“This is…” Martin sounded queasy.

“It makes sense,” Sasha said with excitement. “It _makes sense!_ There was no supernatural spirit of death, because someone just shot Magnus! It—”

“It was just… a normal murder. It’s explainable.”

Tim snorted. “As explainable as you can call a magical, evil 200-year-old man with eyeballs for brains.”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “I just wish we knew who did it.” 

Leitner awkwardly cleared his throat. “I, uh— I might have… some idea.”

The three of them stared at him. 

“Some time ago— someone came to the tunnels. They… threatened me, said they would— would spare my life only if I gave them one of my books— one that helped me navigate the tunnels. So… I, I obliged their request.”

Tim’s blood hummed.

“And you think…”

“That they did this? Yes.” 

“Did you recognize them?” Sasha asked.

Leitner shook his head. “I never saw them, only— heard them shouting at me. Wanted to avoid confrontation. If… I recall, they had a male voice, Oxford accent. Not— not posh, but Oxford.”

“So our culprit is some guy with an RP accent.”

“Possibly.”

“That’s… that’s a _description_. Wow,” Sasha said. “Doesn’t narrow things down much, though.”

“Maybe not if we’re pulling from a large suspect pool,” Martin said. “But whoever this was knew about the tunnels, knew about Leitner, knew he had a book they wanted, knew about Jonah…”

“Know anyone who fits the bill?” Tim asked Leitner.

“Well— no. I rarely leave the tunnels, and when I do, I— I have precautions. No one should know I’m here.”

They considered that. Who could know about Leitner, or Magnus? There weren’t many options. Hell, Tim had _worked_ at the Institute, and he hadn’t— 

Tim’s brain screeched to a halt. “Wait. How the _fuck_ are we alive?” 

“I’m sorry?” Leitner said.

“We worked there,” Martin replied. “At the Institute. In the Archives. We should be _dead.”_

Leitner gaped at them in bewilderment. “Did you—” he furrowed his brow. “No, you didn’t quit—”

Sasha cut him off. “People keep talking about quitting the Institute. Care to explain what that means?” 

“Well, you can’t quit the Institute— no one can. Once you sign on, you— you’re tied to Jonah. To the Eye. The only way to quit that Gertrude ever found was— was removing her own eyes.”

Something ice-cold lodged itself in Tim’s chest. So _that_ was what it meant to be ‘tied to the Beholding.’ To be forced to work for an evil geriatric on pain of death. But now Magnus was dead, maybe because someone with an RP accent murdered him, and somehow Tim was still here, and he had no idea why. If their ‘severed connection’ to the Beholding saved them, what had severed it? And if their connection was severed, why was the Beholding protecting them? Or was there some other monster watching over them?

Tim regarded the corpse. It was lifeless, harmless, but still had a distinctly sinister aura. It was a chilling reminder that they, too, should have been dead. 

“We should go,” Sasha said after a long silence. “I think we’ve seen enough.”

— 

Their return voyage through the tunnels was quiet and contemplative, Leitner slowly leading them through each twist and turn. Until, mid-limp, he said, “I think, uh— I need to—” and promptly collapsed. 

When it happened, Tim swore and crouched next to Leitner. His breath was quick and shallow, his face ashen and clammy. His arm, which was still cradled to his chest, was bathed in crimson blood. Tim had a feeling that this was his fault.

Martin appeared next to Tim. “What is it? Is he okay?”

Tim grimaced. “Uh. I am going to go out on a limb and say he is losing blood.”

“Yeah, uh, looks about right to me…” Martin gently unfurled Leitner’s injured arm from his chest, then gagged. Tim had cut a sizeable chunk out of Leitner’s arm with his axe; the wound went to the bone near his wrist, and shaved skin and muscle off his forearm all the way down to his elbow. “Found it. Christ, Tim, what did you _do_ to this guy?”

“Um. There was an axe.” 

“Right. How did he not _say_ anything?”

Sasha squatted next to Tim. “We have to get him to A&E.”

“Sorry,” Tim said.

“Obviously,” Martin tore a thick strip of fabric from Leitner’s shabby coat. “We just have to make sure he doesn’t die on the way there. Uh— does anyone a pen?”

“Yes, why?” Sasha felt around in her pockets.

“Tourniquet.” Martin took the pen from Sasha and began to construct a tourniquet around Leitner’s arm. 

Tim tapped Leitner’s face a few times and said, “You there, mate?”

Leitner blinked open his eyes.

“Hey. You need to tell us how to get out of here, okay?”

“Right. The tunnels…” Leitner furrowed his brow. His gaze was unfocused. “Uh— you just go— you go— uh—”

“I think we’re gonna need to figure this out ourselves,” Tim said.

“Good that that I brought chalk then,” Sasha said.

Once Martin finished the tourniquet, Tim and Martin slung a half-conscious Leitner's arms over their shoulders, and they set out to escape, Sasha leading the way. It was slow going, even slower than when Leitner was leading them. After a concerningly long time they found their marked path, and as Leitner’s condition grew worse they followed it the way they came. Then, at last, they reached the surface.

They dragged Leitner up the steep stone steps, set him against the stacks, and dialed 999. While Tim and Martin hid their weapons in a closet, Sasha went outside and waited for an ambulance to appear. Ten minutes later, paramedics marched into the Archives with single-minded purpose, loading poor Leitner onto a stretcher and carrying him off. 

Then, of course, they had some explaining to do.

“Do you know his name?” A paramedic questioned.

“He said it was Johann,” Martin replied. “Didn’t give a last name. Pretty sure he’s been squatting here.” Tim and Sasha nodded along sagely. 

“Certainly looks it. Did you see who did this to him?”

“No.” It was technically true. Martin let out a convincing sigh. “Clearly _someone_ beat him up… I just don’t know what kind of person would be so cruel to a poor old man.” _Oh, real subtle._

The paramedic nodded. “There are some real bastards out there. Anyways— how did you find him here?”

“Well, we used to work here, and…” 

Over the paramedic’s shoulder, two figures emerged from amongst the stacks, and Tim’s blood pressure spiked. Those were the last people Tim wanted to deal with right now. _Tonner and Basira,_ stalking towards them with a predator’s intent. 

“Guys,” Tim cut Martin off.

Sasha stiffened. Martin looked and said, “Ah.”

Tonner and Basira strutted up and imposed themselves upon the conversation. “We’ll take it from here,” Tonner said in a voice like cold steel. The paramedic nodded and left.

“Basira!” Tim said as cheerfully as possible. “How are you! Looking as lovely as always, I see.”

“What are you doing here?” Basira responded.

“We found an injured man, and—” Martin said. 

“Who was he?”

“A homeless guy named Johann, apparently.” Tim didn’t bother saying it seductively.

“Yeah, and you just happened to find him _here_ of all places,” Tonner said.

Sasha shrugged. “What about it?”

“This is where all your coworkers mysteriously dropped dead,” Basira said. “Why are you _here?”_

Silence. They all seemed to agree that telling the police about their antics was a poor idea.

Tonner exhaled. “Okay, fine. You three are gonna need to come with us.”

“What? Why?” Tim asked.

“We have questions for you.”

“What— we just told the paramedics everything we know,” Sasha said. “We can repeat it here, but there’s no reason to drag us to the police station.”

Tonner set her jaw. “I’m sure there are questions the paramedics neglected.”

Martin protested. “What does that mean—” 

“You can either come willingly, or we can arrest you for assault and go from there.” The cavalier way Tonner said it made Tim want to punch her in the face.

“Just come with us,” Basira said. She sounded done.

Tim bit his tongue. He wanted to tell them both to fuck off, but that would only make things worse. Violence wouldn’t solve this. No, there was nothing to do but go with them. 

He sighed. Maybe if his date with Basira had gone better, this wouldn’t have happened.

— 

“One more time.”

“I had nothing to do with the Magnus Institute’s demise.” Tim slumped further back in the stiff metal interrogation chair. This was getting tedious. Tonner had been questioning him for ages, and Tim was beginning to wear down. He wanted to see Sasha and Martin. He wanted to go home. 

Tonner growled.

“What else do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell the truth.”

“That is what I am _doing.”_

Tonner bared her teeth. “Listen. The only reason I haven’t beaten your face in already is because we’re in a police station. Next time I won’t be so courteous. Now’s your chance to _tell the truth.”_

“Why are you so convinced that it’s us? Do you think we have spooky murder powers or something?”

“You tell me.”

“I— well I don’t. Obviously, I don’t.” Tonner stared at him. “You don’t seriously think I have spooky murder powers.”

“I think it’s suspicious that you’re one of three people that survived a mass death.”

“Yeah, and I’m _sure_ that’s enough evidence for a murder charge.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t.” Tonner leaned back in her chair. “But now we’ve caught you acting suspicious at the Institute.”

“Am I not allowed to visit my old workplace?”

“Not when it’s _a crime scene.”_

“Okay. Sorry for helping a homeless man, then. I’ll make sure to spit on the poor in the future.”

Tonner looked him in the eyes. “Remind me why, exactly, that man needed an ambulance again?”

Tim stiffened. “I don’t know,” he said evenly.

Tonner leaned forward. “It’s because of you, isn’t it?”

Tim did not respond, even as his heartbeat quickened.

There was something smug, almost vindicated in Tonner’s face as she leaned even closer. “I know that it was _you_ who beat him within an inch of his life. Because you wanted to, because you decided he _deserved_ it. And you relished every brutal moment, didn’t you?”

“Do you have any proof of that?” Tim ignored the satisfaction that came from being reminded of his victory.

“The look on your face is all the evidence I need.”

Tim bit his tongue. 

“Did he deserve it?”

Tim did not speak.

Tonner cocked her head. “Did the rest of them?”

“I did not murder—”

“Maybe _you_ didn’t. Maybe you didn’t pull the trigger. But I think you wanted it. You were hungry for it, hungry to taste their blood, like the monster you are. You can’t hide that from me. Not when it shines through every _fibre_ of your being. And you and your _pack_ won’t stop until someone stops you.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Tim said, even as his blood thumped in his head, as his heart both quivered with fear and swelled with pride at being seen.

“So you _haven’t_ murdered anyone,” Tonner said. “You haven’t beaten up any old men, and you haven’t conspired with James or Blackwood, and especially not with anyone named Jonathan Sims—”

“Jon is dead.” Tim spat. Had she implied that Jon was responsible for this? Tim’s _violently murdered boss?_ The blood _roared_ in his ears and he shook with anger. He restrained himself from flying across the room and socking her in the jaw. “Fuck you. What the _fuck.”_

Tonner regarded him silently. “Hm.”

Against his better judgement, Tim stood, towering over Tonner. “How. _DARE YOU._ You are well _fucking_ aware that Jon is dead, and the person who murdered him is somewhere _out there,_ and you’re too busy interrogating me to _find them.”_

Tonner stood and glared at him, expression full of hatred. “What I _know_ is that _someone_ killed eighty-five innocent people, and right now it’s looking a lot like it was you.”

“According to _what evidence?”_

“I think I know a predator when I see one!”

“You just want a scapegoat, don’t you? I bet it looks bad not to investigate a mass death, and now you actually have to do your job. So you pin it on the first people you come across. Is that it then?”

“Fuck you,” Tonner said. “Someday, if you’re not rotting in prison, I am going to find you and _kill you_ , I have spent every day of my life for _years_ keeping this city safe from monsters like you and creatures you couldn’t even _begin to imagine—”_

There was a look in Tonner’s eyes that Tim suddenly recognized. It was a look he’d seen in the mirror every morning for the past two months. A thumping need, a _hunger_ for answers. For justice. For _blood._

“Oh,” Tim said, blood pounding in his ears. “You’re like me.”

“I am _nothing_ like you,” Tonner snarled.

“No, I think you are. You want to destroy whatever bastard is responsible for this as much as I do. You’re desperate for it. You _need_ it.”

“Shut up.”

“You hate me because you think I’m a murderer. Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m not. But what does that make you? How many people have you killed because _you_ declared them deserving? How much blood is on your hands? If I’m a monster, what does that make y—” 

Tonner turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Tim was alone. He took deep breaths as the blood slowly went quiet, then sat down and deflated like a balloon. 

Was that what he looked like to Sasha and Martin? Like a wolf, pouncing at the slightest whiff of blood, impervious to reason and quick to violence? He didn’t think so— he _hoped_ not— but what if that changed? He wanted revenge, _needed_ it, and even now something vicious sang to him when he remembered how he tore Leitner apart— and that _terrified_ him, more than he wanted to admit. Tim was _becoming_ something, and he didn’t like what that something was, and he feared it was too late to stop.

Would Jon have wanted this for him? Would Danny?

Basira entered the room, interrupting Tim’s train of thought. She silently offered a paper cup of water to Tim. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it and downed it in one swig while Basira sat across from him.

“You here to play good cop, then?” he rasped.

“It’s not ‘playing.’”

Tim considered that. “Are you planning on letting us go?” 

“Daisy is convinced you and your friends murdered everyone at the Institute,” Basira said in lieu of a response.

“So I’ve gathered. Unfortunately, we didn’t, so—”

“That’s _Daisy._ Me? I’m doubtful.”

“Oh?” Tim leaned forward. “Do tell.”

“CCTV cleared you.”

Tim threw up his hands. “Oh! Well, case closed then, I guess. What the fuck is Tonner’s problem, again?”

Basira glared at Tim, albeit without heat. “Daisy has a _sense_ about these things. She thinks you messed with the footage.” Tim opened his mouth to protest, but then remembered Sasha definitely could have done that if she wanted to. “Usually I trust her judgement, but she’s— getting into shouting matches with suspects is new, even for her.”

“How reassuring—” 

“And _besides,_ you don’t strike me as a murderer. You— ugh.” Basira shook her head. “After our date, I doubt that you’re guilty.”

“Oh— uh— what?” That was the last thing he’d expected to hear.

“Frankly, I only agreed to go because I wanted information, and… I just, after experiencing that, I don’t think you’re competent or cruel enough to kill that many people.”

“Uh—” Tim wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. “Thank you?” 

“You’re welcome. Now tell me: What were you _really_ doing at the Institute?”

Tim considered his answer. Hopefully it wouldn’t incriminate him. “Investigating.”

Basira didn’t seem surprised. “How’s that going for you?”

“Like you care,” Tim said bitterly. “You didn’t even _pretend_ to care about finding answers.”

“Just because I can’t investigate the Institute doesn’t mean I don’t _want to._ There simply aren’t many resources for cases like this.”

“Like what?”

“Cases that are … _weird.”_ Basira gave Tim a meaningful look. 

“Ah.” Spooky shit. Gotcha.

“It’s basically just me and Daisy here. We have no support, or even incentive to investigate anything. Believe me, I’d love to determine what instantaneously killed almost a hundred people, but…” Basira let out a long, beleaguered sigh, one that spoke to years of frustration. “There’s not much we can do.”

“That sucks,” Tim said, unsure how else to respond. “I don’t know if Tonner’s gotten that message though.”

“I am sorry about that. This case is testing both of us. The stakes are high, and there’s so little evidence, and the evidence we _do_ have…” a strange expression passed over her face, then disappeared. “... it’s weird. Neither of us knew where to start looking. So you and your friends were pretty obvious suspects.” 

“I… yeah, that makes sense.” 

“Mmhm. But if you’ve uncovered evidence that implicates someone _else,_ it might be a good idea to share it.”

Tim was quiet for a moment. “Well, we don’t have anything concrete. We don’t know who did it.”

“But?”

“... We might know _what_ killed everyone. And we have a lot of, uh, _context,_ for lack of a better term. Really unbelievable, _weird_ stuff. Unfortunately, a bunch of our—” Tim was going to say ‘a bunch of our leads are dead ends,’ but then he remembered that two of those dead ends were only dead ends because they didn’t have police resources. And here was Basira, who, shockingly enough, seemed like she might be willing to help. Tim hadn’t even seduced her.

Tim weighed his words carefully, before saying, “Actually… we’d know a lot more if you could give me some help.”

— 

“You’re letting them _go?”_ Tonner snarled. 

They’d finally been released, and it was only one in the morning. Tim had at last returned to Sasha and Martin, who had been placed in similar rooms and subjected to similar questioning; Sasha had been smart enough to remain silent, and neither of them had ended up screaming at Tonner, who— _speak of the devil—_ was currently arguing with Basira about their release.

“We’ve got nothing to charge them with, so yeah.”

“Are you serious? We—” 

“They called 999 for a vagrant in a building where they used to work which _happens_ to be a crime scene. It’s circumstantial at best and you know it.”

“Basira, they’re guilty. We can’t let them go. Surely you trust—” 

“Daisy.” Basira grabbed Tonner on the shoulder. “Look at me. There’s no evidence to support that. We can talk about this later. Let it _go.”_

Tonner stepped back. She looked at Basira like she’d been slapped in the face. Then, her raw, betrayed expression was replaced with an angry mask. “Fine,” she spat. “You won’t help me? I’ll prove it myself.” She fixed them with a hateful glare, and then she was gone. 

Basira was quiet, staring at the spot where Tonner had stood. “You should go.”

“Yeah,” Martin said.

“Thank you,” Tim said sincerely. 

At last, they stepped into the night. The distant city sounds washed over them, blanketing them in a peaceful quiet. Tim took in a deep breath, appreciating how the crisp winter air burned in his lungs. 

“I called a, uh— a friend to pick us up,” Martin said. 

“Thank you _so much,_ ” Tim said. “I do not want to deal with finding my car right now.”

“Of course! If you need to thank anyone, it’s her.”

“No kidding,” Sasha said. “I can’t believe they kept us in there for that long.”

“Me neither. It was almost as bad as Prentiss.” Martin chuckled, then went quiet. “She asked me about that, actually.”

“What?” Tim said.

“Tonner— she asked if I’d seen any monsters lately. So, Prentiss. And Peter. And, uh, whatever saved me, that one time.” He went even quieter. “Especially that.”

Tim suddenly recalled Tonner’s bizarre accusation about Jon. Where had that come from? Maybe Martin was right, and there was something out there which wore Jon’s skin and used his voice— what if Tonner had seen it? But he hated even considering that some facsimile of Jon was still out there, and pushed the idea out of his mind.

Sasha patted Martin on the shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too,” Martin replied. 

“That really was utterly atrocious, huh?” Sasha shook her head.

“Actually, I disagree,” Tim said.

“What, because you got a second go at Basira?” Sasha said.

“What? No! No, it’s because I convinced her to give me the tape and her password to the fingerprint database.”

Sasha and Martin gaped at Tim in shock. “You’re kidding,” Martin breathed.

“Nope!” Tim beamed.

“That’s— that’s amazing!” Sasha raced forward and hugged Tim, then grabbed his shoulders, vibrating with excitement. “How?”

“I— she seemed interested in the investigation, so I told her some of what we’d learned, and asked for her help, and she just— agreed. She gave me her password, and said she’d get me the tape, and— and that was that!”

“You’re incredible!” she said. Tim looked up into her deep brown eyes. He was close enough to see the freckles across her nose, the subtle flecks of amber in her irises. She was glowing with joy. “I could— I could kiss you right now—”

“Georgie!” Martin shouted. He was waving at an oncoming car. A few moments later, a blue sedan pulled up next to them, and then a woman Tim recognized as Georgie Barker stepped out.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Nope,” Tim said. He stepped away from Sasha. “You were at the funeral, right?”

“Yep.” She grinned. “I heard you needed a ride home. Figured I’d lend a hand.”

Minutes later, Tim found himself seated next to Sasha in the backseat, while Martin rode in the front. Georgie tapped her hands on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the indie song that was playing. She looked much better than she had at Jon’s funeral. 

“So,” she said casually. “What got you lot in trouble with the police?”

“They suspected us of murder,” Tim said.

“Huh.” There was an awkward silence. “Well… were they right?”

“No!” Sasha said. “Besides, that wasn’t really why they were holding us. It was mostly for questioning.”

_“Mostly?”_

“Mostly.”

 _“Damn._ Martin, you never told me your friends were this fucking wild!”

“I— uh— it never came up?” he stammered.

“How could someone with as calm an energy as you have be a murder suspect?” Georgie laughed. “Well, if you ever end up actually going on a crime spree, I will support you all the way. Maybe don’t murder anyone, though.”

Sasha chuckled. “Sounds easy enough.” She peered at Tim out of the corner of her eye. “Right, Tim?”

“I suppose I can limit myself to felony assault,” Tim said.

“I’ll take what I can get,” Martin said fondly. 

“Seriously, Martin, where did you meet these people?”

“We worked together at the Institute—” 

“Actually,” Tim said, “I was wondering how you and Martin became friends.”

“We started texting after Jon’s funeral.” Georgie shrugged. “Bonded over cute animals. Martin’s cool as hell and I like talking to him. Not much else to it.”

“Martin _is_ cool as hell,” Tim said. Sasha hummed in agreement.

“Ah, uh— thank you,” the cool-as-hell guy stammered as his cheeks turned bright red.

“There’s no denying public opinion, Martin: you’re cool as hell! You’ll just have to accept it,” Georgie said.

Martin covered his face with his hands. “I’m going to die of embarrassment. And then I’ll become a ghost and haunt you all.”

Georgie laughed. “I look forward to it!”

“Martin, no! How would we avenge you if _we’re_ the ones responsible?” Tim joked.

“We can embarrass _ourselves_ as penance for embarrassing Martin,” Sasha said.

Georgie laughed. “Genius!”

“But how do we most effectively embarrass ourselves?” Sasha mused.

Tim grinned. “I vote we—” 

Suddenly, Georgie’s phone rang. With one hand, she unplugged it from the aux and glanced at it. Her expression fell. “Oh, Melanie…” she said under her breath, before looking at them apologetically. “I have to take this.” 

While Georgie talked on the phone with whoever had called her at one in the morning, Tim zoned out. Snippets of the conversation floated past his ears — “Do you want me to come over?” — “I know tea helps me get back to sleep, I can bring some” — and he considered the day’s events.

He still couldn’t believe they finally knew what killed everyone. There was no “murder ghost” — just a guy with a gun who shot their evil Victorian boss, because Elias was Jonah Magnus. Also, apparently every Institute employee had been bound to his life force, which was cool. Tim didn’t want to think about that too much; especially because, in spite of everything, a selfish part of him was glad Jonah was dead.

There were, of course, still plenty of lingering questions. What had saved them from Jonah Magnus’s Evil Job Contract, and why did the Beholding seem to still be protecting them? And they still didn’t definitively know what killed Jon— did he go the way of Gertrude Robinson, murdered by Elias? Or did Elias’s killer get him too? And who, for that matter, had killed Elias? Someone masculine, with an RP accent and an impressive knowledge of the Institute’s secrets— but how would they find that person?

Hopefully the fingerprints and the tape would help. And if they did— if they led to a culprit— they were _done._ Their hunt for answers was culminating in _something_ , the dominoes falling into place. His blood raced with anticipation. Soon, he’d have within his grasp whatever posh bastard was responsible for everything. Soon, he’d be able to rip the man’s throat out and cave in his skull and— 

Tim closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, and waited until the blood went quiet. He hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t even _noticed_ it singing to him. He really was slipping, wasn’t he? Falling into some violent darkness, giving into a feral instinct that he didn’t know he had, maybe one that was always there. And although part of him wanted to embrace it, a stronger part of him didn’t. He didn’t want to be like Tonner.

But he still wanted revenge. How could he not? He wanted it for Jon, for Danny, for everyone he’d lost. But he also wanted it for _himself._ And maybe if he was alone, maybe if he was all he had, he would accept that. Let go, succumb to the bloodlust, lose himself in his own personal hunt. But it wasn’t just him. He had Sasha and Martin. He had them, and they cared about him, and his becoming would hurt them too much to bear. So he would hold on, for them. That had to be enough.

The car was quiet, save for Georgie’s voice. Martin had fallen asleep, face serene and neck at an awkward angle. Sasha stared out of the window at the passing buildings, hand resting between the seats, haloed in dim city light. Fuck, Tim loved both of them so much. He _needed_ them, even more than he needed revenge.

He reached out and took Sasha’s hand. She stilled and glanced at Tim, then smiled softly, squeezing his hand. Tim closed his eyes and relaxed. The blood was silent.

Yes, this would be enough. 


End file.
